Rambo Training
by KKBELVIS
Summary: An exploration/character study/adventure of Sam (12), Dean (16) along with rough, tough, drill Sergeant John during one of his military-type training- sessions. Story is complete. Posts in chapters.
1. Chapter 1

RAMBO TRAINING

By: Karen B.

Summary: An exploration/character study/adventure of Sam (12), Dean (16) and rough, tough, drill Sergeant John during one of his training- sessions. Story is complete. Posts in chapters.

Disclaimer: Not the owner.

Rated: Nothing to horrible.

'**They drew first blood, not me.' – John Rambo First Blood: Book release: 1972 Movie release: 1982.**

/~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~/

As John and Sam made their way deeper and deeper into the woods, John wished he could separate himself – father from drill sergeant. But the father in him was awkward and lost in a dark and empty long-ago place.

Drill Sergeant John was the one in control now – determined and unstoppable. Revenge the hard center of his existence, splayed bare after he'd been forced to witness 'his' Mary burn alive.

That was the last night he'd seen his true self.

Those first few months were the worst as he lay in motel bed after motel bed. Drunk and confused and lost. Listening night-after-night to his four-year-old son Dean, and six month-old baby, Sammy wail; their cries echoing all around the darkened room, piercing his mind and gripping his soul and shattering his heart.

John's despair ran deep and his will to live lost, until he finally found out the truth about all the supernatural evil in the world.

After that, the all-encompassing need for sweet revenge took hold. He'd kill the thing that killed Mary, and keep his boys safe. And he'd do that the only way he knew how. Train his boys to be well disciplined. Physically and mentally fit and ready. Make them experts in warfare. Teach them never to quit. To engage the enemy and if need be, take up the slack should he fail.

John squinted up through the tall trees. The golden morning rays of the sun spreading down through the branches cut past the foggy mist, warming his face.

He'd train his boys to know the intensity of being a solider wasn't just a job, but a way of life.

_God help him. The choice was made. There was no room for regret._

"What are we going to do now, dad?"

John shuddered and glanced down into the shining, questioning eyes of his youngest son.

"Not we, you," John spoke with quiet coolness, standing tall and firm he turned Sam around, tugging his hands behind his back. "You have to learn to be capable of handling any situation you find yourself in, Sammy," he said winding a thick rope around both the boy's crossed wrists, binding his hands tightly together.

Sam didn't struggle, though he instinctually stiffened and winced as the itchy rough threads of the rope banded around his wrists.

"You may not always be able to rely on all your senses." John pulled out a blue bandanna and slipped it over Sam's eyes blindfolding him.

Sam's breaths quickened, but he remained still.

"You'll need to build confidence. Trust in your instincts."

Sam heard the peeling rip of what he knew to be a silver roll of duct tape. Swiftly, his father bound his fingers together tightly, the digits unable to wiggle.

Large hands clamped down onto Sam's shoulders.

John spun Sam around in a circle, fast.

"Now this is no pin-the-tail-on-the-donkey game, son," John kept spinning Sam, faster and faster. "This is a hardcore lesson in becoming a hunter. And the lesson doesn't end until you make your way back to camp." John kept rotating Sam round and round. "There will be times when you will want to stop. Want to give up." John quit spinning and squeezed Sam's shoulders to steady the tottering twelve-year-old. "But you don't. You won't. You don't ever give up," he commanded. "Can't let an injury or pain or fear slow you down, stop you from doing what you need to do. You don't ever stop. You fight the fear. You pull yourself along on your belly using only your chin if you have to, and you fight to the death. Son! Do you understand?"

"Yes. Yes, sir." Sam wiggled nervously in John's grasp.

John drew in a deep breath and then let it out slowly. He wished he didn't have to do this. But all this wishing did no good. Wish in one hand. Shit in the other. It was obvious which would get filled first.

It wasn't easy being a parent under normal circumstances; training his children to be soldiers, to learn to pay attention to the noises in the shadows, instilling the knowledge that those very shadows could and would hurt them. Teaching them both that scary things really did live under their beds, and wanted to, and would eat them alive. It gave John no pleasure to terrify the crap out of his kids. But he needed them to be strong, for if someday they had to face the devil, without him by their side, they would be prepared.

John's hair stood on end. There was no being prepared for that kind of evil. He shook himself from his thoughts going back to the task at hand.

"It takes twenty-six weeks of intense boot camp training to make a solider, kid," he continued to tell Sam. "And it'll take a lifetime to become a hunter. And hunters, Sammy…they don't have lifetimes… get it?" He stared intently down at his blindfolded son.

"I get it."

"Sam!"

" I mean…y-yes, sssir," Sam said again, the words catching in his throat.

John turned Sam around one more time pointing him in a cardinal direction. "You brought your knife, right?"

Sam nodded.

"Holy water and matches," he added. Items his sons were taught never to leave home without, no matter if they were just going to the corner store for a stick of gum.

Sam nodded again.

"You can do this, son."

_He hated to leave. But he had to._

"Dad?" Sam questioned timidly.

"Listen, Sammy," he whispered. "We've been over the area," John's voice remained steady and calm, though it killed him deep inside. "You know the terrain well." He gave Sam's shoulders one last squeeze. "You can do this. Meet me back at camp."

"Yes, sir," Sam uttered.

"Dean and I will have dinner waiting." With no more fuss, John turned away.

Sam stood frozen, listening to his father's heavy footsteps hurry across the hard forest floor, not attempting to be quiet in the least. The footsteps slowed their pace, paused, and then were gone. For a moment Sam thought he should follow, but he knew his father well, and John wouldn't head back toward camp right off. That'd make this test way too easy on Sam. Defeat the purpose of the training.

And just what exactly was the purpose of the training? To prepare Sam for the things in the dark that would come to get him. Things covered in scales and slime and fur, things that had razor-sharp claws, and shark-ripping, blood-stained teeth, things that should never, ever exist on this planet or any other–but did. That's what.

Sam didn't make a move, straining to see through the blindfold.

But he couldn't see anything. The band had been tied snug and so tight that no speck of light penetrated the material.

It was early spring, the snow having just melted. Sam knew the sun was out, but under the shelter of the thick pine trees that crowded in on him he couldn't feel it. The wind blew cold in his ears. Carrying with it many different sounds that made him shiver down to his toes. He wished he'd worn more than his pullover hoodie and a tee-shirt.

He cocked his head and listened. Strange noises came to him. Ones he couldn't identify: _hums, echoes, thuds, crashes, jingles, splashes, thuds, crunches_, all coming from everywhere and all at once.

He was disoriented, missing his sense of sight, and feeling vulnerable without the use of his hands and dizzy from all his father's spinning.

He started to tremble. Swore he could feel eyes watching him. Bears, cougars, wolves, the occasional escaped zoo animal, and then there were the real worries, Zombies, Wendigo, Ogopogo, Chupacabra, just to name a few.

Sam took in a breath, forcing rational thought back in. He needed to stay calm. Dad wouldn't leave him helpless in a forest full of monsters. This was only a test. A test Sam decided he was determined to pass. He remained still for the longest time. Compensating and cultivating and gathering his other senses.

The strange noises began to make sense. The hoot-hoot of an owl, the rustle of leaves in the pine-scented breeze, the chirp of a chipmunk, a scampering rabbit –all harmless woodland creatures.

"Okay. Okay," Sam mumbled, a voice in his head – his fathers – telling him not to panic.

First thing was first. Creatures in the woods… strike that…creatures of any kind normally could smell you before they ever saw you.

Sam dropped down to the ground, hands bound behind him, he rolled around in the dirt and pine needles covering his body head to toe, masking his scent. A trick his father taught him.

Second, he needed to choose a direction. And not the one his father had pointed him in.

He stood straight and tall, titling his head upward.

A light breeze brushed across his cheek.

Deciding it was best to stay down wind, he tentatively headed off to his right, the same direction as the hurried rabbit had gone. As Sam walked, he hoped he didn't fall into a hole and end up in Wonderland. He stepped slowly and as quietly as he could, testing the ground with each footfall, the soft sound of leaves crackling under his earth boots. He made his way carefully, it was hard to keep his balance with no sight and his hands tied behind his back, fingers duct taped for good measure.

But Sam was proud of himself. He'd been walking for what he estimated to be a good forty minutes. Successfully stepping over fallen logs without face planting and avoiding tripping over roots, only being whapped once in the face by a low hanging tree limb.

_Ouch!_

Every few yards he stopped to lean against a tree. Listen and gather his wits. But mostly to work the tape and rope, rubbing up and down against the bark and trying to wiggle and pull them apart. Progress was slow. He needed something with more cutting power and couldn't reach his knife strapped to his belt against his side. Sam dug his heel into the dirt and marked the land. Once he could cut through the thick rope and get the blindfold off he would need to know he wasn't traveling in circles.

He stepped away from the tree, another low hanging branch catching hold of a few strands of his long hair. There came an angry squawk and the softness of fringed wings just barely brushing past his cheek.

"Uhng," Sam gave a startled cry, zigzagging left and yanking out several strands by the roots. "Crap," he muttered, gaining control when he realized the angry squawk had come from some poor bird taking flight, and more than likely as scared as he was.

He took a second to gather his breath wishing he could push his unruly hair back, thinking maybe Dean and Dad were right and he truly did need a cut.

A few more deep breaths and another moment to reorient himself and Sam continued on. It was unnerving not being able to see. Sounds amplified tenfold. The buzzing of insects, the pecking of beaks and the scampering thump of what Sam hopped to be nothing more than rabbits. These woods were full of them. His sense of hearing was more sensitive now, and he swore one rabbit in particular seemed to be following him. Or maybe he was following it. Sam couldn't be sure.

His wrists hurt and his shoulders were sore from lack of movement. Not long ago he'd wandered right into a grove of thorny bushes, the tiny thorns scratching across his cheeks and still some of them were pinching his skin through his hoody and jeans.

Under the blindfold, he tried to blink his eyes, but the material was tied so tight he couldn't. He was about to veer right when there came that same scampering sound again. Off to his left. Sam's sixth sense kicked in further; something deep inside him telling him he should follow. Dad always said, when in doubt listen to your gut. Sam veered left following the sound.

/~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~/

Hours later, Sam began to wonder if he'd made the right choice.

He'd lost track of the scampering rabbit and it was getting late. He checked himself. He was thirsty and hungry and tired and his orientation was slipping again, and he'd lost feeling in his hands. The rope was digging in deep, indenting and pinching the skin around his wrists, and the tape around his fingers itched.

He kept misplacing steps. Three times he rammed his forehead into the trunks of trees, trees that had been uselessly slow in helping him rid his hands of rope and tape.

"Stupid," Sam growled, picking up his pace even though he ached and wanted nothing more than to sit and give up.

He was really mad at his father. So mad it brought tears to his eyes dampening the bandanna. Sam no longer tried to stay quiet as he stomped through the forest. No matter how hard he tried he just couldn't understand this life. It was confusing and unfair and though he didn't remember one thing about his mother, he knew…deep down…he knew…she would never have wanted this for her sons.

Sam's foot jammed under a tree root and he lost his balance dropping down, his left kneecap impacting on a rock. He quickly scrambled back up to his feet. He didn't need to see to know he'd torn his jeans, the knee already hot and swelling as warm sticky blood dripped down his calf. Sam stood a moment sniffing, tears running fast. He was thankful at that moment for the bandanna that soaked up the salty drops.

Not that the squirrels gave a damn he was balling like a baby.

But he swore he could hear his smartass brother making up his own words to the tune of 'Big Girls Don't Cry."

Sam stumbled on, at first barely able to put weight on the leg, but walking off the pain with each step. He felt smaller than normal among the acres and acres of trees, little more than a dust mite in a world of giants.

_This was ridiculous._ His father was out of control. Who put their son's through this kind of training. What if he walked off a cliff? Would his father even care? Or was Sam supposed to just spread his wings and fly?

If he had to be a part of his father's obsession, he rather do it from behind a book, Dad or Dean phoning in every hour, Dean grilling him for facts, and calling him a pale-faced, geeky, clumsy nerd.

Maybe he was a nerd? All Sam was missing to complete the ensemble was a pair of horn rimmed glasses with thick, foggy lenses. He tried not to show it, but being called a nerd bothered Sam.

He had other skills, like the ones he was using right now to pass his father's stupid military test.

So what if books were his passion. Reading was like turning the knob of a door and opening it unto a whole new life. But it was more than just the words inside or the story itself. The simple opening of a book and turning of the pages made Sam feel more powerful than any bow or knife or gun ever could make him feel. And besides that, picking up a book off the library shelf and reading was something millions of people did every day. Being left behind on hunts to do research was safe and at least gave him some sense of normal, a sense of power and some kind of control over this crazy life.

He could focus on a book and be fascinated with a book and devour a book. It beat the hell out of trying to hunt and to kill the things he read about and wished weren't real.

There came that scampering again, and Sam paused to listen. This was no ordinary rabbit. It was big and sounded like it walked upright on two feet.

Slowly and quietly, Sam planted one foot in front of the other, barely disturbing the leaves and cautious not to press down and break any twigs. He was rather proud of himself, floating with the quietest of steps over the forest floor until something else captured his attention.

Sam froze instantly, all his weight on his back foot.

He cocked his head and listened intently to the burble of water. Up ahead and not far off. He could tell by the gentle rolling gurgle it was no more than a small stream. But where there was a watercourse…there were boulders and sharp stones. Cutting tools that would work much faster than backing his ass end up against tree bark to unbind his hands.

It was so unnerving, not being able to see or steady his balance with his hands, and it was hard to stay brave when he felt so helpless. Beads of sweat soaked the bandanna tied around Sam's eyes and his body slightly trembled. But he pressed on in the direction of the water, fingers wiggling in anticipation of being set free from the duct tape.

The ground changed beneath his feet, soupy and slick and slopping. Sam carefully made his way down the small incline, the trickle of water now a rush. He felt along the calloused rocks at the edge of the stream, using his feet, until he found one that seemed large enough.

He sat in the mud, leaning up against the rock. Water lapped at the soles of his shoes and squishy wetness soaked his ass.

"Gross," he murmured as he began to scratch the tape in an up and down sawing motion.

Frogs croaked and he could hear water rushing over rocks and twigs. It was a small river, but wet and cold. At least his boots were waterproof. The rock was doing the trick. He cut through the duct tape, thought it took a good ten minutes. Adjusting his position, Sam sat higher up, finding a more jagged edge and started working the rope, his numb, gluey fingers fumbling to help.

The crisp breeze was fragrant, carrying with it the scent of a mint, freshly tilled dirt, and the sweet smell of honey suckle. It made his stomach rumble louder in hunger, and his hands worked faster.

There came the faint scampering again, behind him and moving through the woods with stealth. Sam stopped working the rope and stiffened, lifting his head up higher.

The croaking frogs hit the water with a splash, and wariness invaded every one of Sam's nerve endings. Listening intently he sized-up his stalker. The wind rattled the budded tree branches and the scampering turned to an even quitter rhythmic lurking.

This was no rabbit.

He once had a nightmare where he was lost in the woods, being stalked by a blue monster with purple spots that could kill you with a simple touch of its hairy pawed hand.

Spooked, Sam started to work the rope again, this time faster. "Come on, come on," he barely whispered, teeth clicking together more out of fear than cold.

The rope broke and fell into the water.

Sam quickly pulled the blindfold off and gripped the bandanna tight in his hands. The stream drifted lazily and no purple spotted monster appeared. He looked up blurrily through the trees to the sky.

White, puffy clouds created strange animal shapes and twirled round and round like a baby's mobile. He held his breath and his heart seemed to stop – the tick-tock of time too.

Sam felt uneasy and dizzy and nauseous. For some reason he pictured the forest being set aflame and he squeezed his eyes shot dropping his chin to his chest. Staring back into darkness made him worse and there came a loud ringing in his ears. It scared him and his eyes snapped back open.

"Guh," he grunted forcefully shoving himself to wobbly feet and glancing around blurrily.

The sunlight flooding down through the towering trees was like a white-hot spotlight and made him feel exposed and out in the open. Even more vulnerable than he had when he was trussed up.

_How could that be?_

It took a moment for him to realize he wasn't helpless anymore. Rubbing circulation back into his hands, he blinked repeatedly, his vision gradually clearing further with each bat of his eyelashes. It had to be late afternoon.

Sam listened to the sound of happily singing birds, and the chatter of a scolding squirrel. The wind rushed down through the tops of the trees and he took a deep breath getting the briefest whiff of M&M's and Cheetos.

Sam's stomach rumbled loudly again, and his fear seemed to subside. "Dean?" he questioned the forest, but got no answer.

_What the hell._

Sam suddenly found no more reason to be scared. "Dean," he said more self-confidently, anger filling him.

He wasn't stupid and he wasn't a baby. He could do this. He'd show Dad and Dean. He could stand-alone. Earn their respect. He could do more than just get lost in a book doing research, he could get lost in the woods too.

Sam scowled, shaking his head. _That didn't come out right_. He'd show his family he could handle himself in the real world just as well as any library.

Sam bent and picked at the threads of the hole in his jeans inspecting his knee. It was puffy and bruised, at least two layers of skin fileted off and red with blood. Dean would have had the peroxide and bandages out already doctoring him up. He knew he should at least wash the wound with river water but in defiance he tied the bandana around his forehead instead like some sort of country-bumpkin ninja.

Ignoring the pain, Sam tramped off racing away from the river. It'd probably take him close to nightfall, but he would shake that scampering rabbit of a brother and find his way back to base camp.

On his own!

TBC

AN: This story is complete. More chapters will be on the way.


	2. The Nightmare Never Ends

RAMBO TRAINING

Chapter Two

/~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~/

John sat down by the fire he'd just made and stared at the worn leather sheath in his hand, turning the knife inside over and over.

He and Caleb had each made their own knives back in the war. Forged them out of the steel of an M-20 rocket launcher they'd pried from the dead, cold hands of one of the very men who'd ambushed their platoon killing everyone but John and Caleb.

In honor of their fallen brothers, they'd melted down the metal, hammering out two very sharp unique blades. Caleb's blade was long and fat and curved into the shape of a claw. John's blade was shorter with four holes in the handle for his fingers to slip into.

Swallowing a sick lump in his throat, John drew the knife and tossed the sheath aside. Moonlight glinted off the smooth, razor-sharp edge sending a flash of silver light shining into his eyes. He squinted, mesmerized as he was transported back in time.

_He'd been trained well as a combat a solider. Understood he had to be alert, use sight and sound. Sense the warning signals when he couldn't see or hear. Know when, where, and how to avoid the perils of traps, mines, and mortar shell fire. He knew, in war, the prime objective was to understand your enemy, avoid falling into their hands, stay alive, and get yourself and your buddies back home. _

_John had done just that. He'd endured the pain of blister filled feet marching miles and miles through swampy battlefields, and the ache of going weeks on an end with an empty gut. He'd lived through the gloom and heat and mosquitos of the jungle. Not to mention the electrified fear of trying to duck the firepower of the enemy, who, if they could, would have shot the moon and stars from the sky along with each and every one of his platoon. _

_As it was they'd gotten ambushed on a mission. John had received a Purple Heart for dragging his wounded ass and a Private, a young pup named Caleb - barely weaned from his mother's teat – to safety. _

The camp fire roared higher, but John didn't feel the heat. He watched his hands start to shake and the skin tone grow pale as his body numbed, going colder than a snowy mountain river. His heart beat faster and his breathing became erratic once again recalling the horror of so long ago:

"_Easy, Caleb," John whispered, adjusting his rifle and the young soldier who lay across his shoulders in a fireman's carry. _

"_Christ, John," Caleb choked, blood trickling from his mouth. "They're all dead."_

"_Shut up, and watch our backs," John spat, carefully stepping around the bodies that lay in puddles of blood. He fought the churn of his stomach and the reflex to gag, knowing there was no need to check any of his men for a pulse. _

"_You're-you're c-crazy," Caleb fumbled to keep hold of his own rifle. "We're not getting out of here alive either."_

"_Not how it's going to go down," John grunted. "You owe me fifty bucks and a case of beer and I intend to collect so you just do your job, Private," he spat, voice rough and full of grit. _

"_Since you put it that way," Caleb muttered, dangling limply over John's shoulder. "You get us out of here and I'll make it a hundred bucks and a bottle of Crown."_

_"Two bottles__**" **__John softened. _

"_Deal," Caleb muttered, sipping in air._

_"Just keep breathing, buddy, and make sure you got a target in your sight before you try to shoot anything. Don't waste ammo."_

"_Yeah, okay," Caleb coughed._

"_And don't upchuck, or the deal is off," John lightly joked, crouching low alongside a barbed wire fence._

"_Saving that occasion for when we get back to the States and drink ourselves silly, right?_

_"Right," John agreed, feeling the trickle of blood flow down his back._

_His chest burned from exertion, and John fought to keep his feet, to keep moving over the rocks and debris of the twisted dark jungle. His breaths were coming fast and shallow, sweat flowing down the sides of his face, the salty droplets hitting his lips. Caleb's weight was overpowering him, but he wouldn't stop, wouldn't give up._

"_Freedom don't…don't come free, does it, John?" Caleb stuttered._

_John licked his lips and spit the brackish taste to the ground. "Nope."_

_"I hate this crap. Just …just want the nightmare to end," Caleb said, swallowing hard._

The crackle of the fire brought John out of the deep memory, back to the moment. "The nightmare never ends," he muttered, staring out into the darkness, past the glow of the campfire light.

Death stalked him wherever he went, circled around him. Ragging inside of him and shifting his organs like pebbles on the beach being pulled to-and-fro by the ocean's tide.

John twirled the knife in his hand, staring at his reflection in the smooth, flat, silver surface. He'd saved Caleb back in the day. Sure. _Yet… he was no hero. _He hadn't saved all those other young boys in his platoon.

He hadn't saved Mary.

She was an orange ball of flames before he could do a damn thing…yet he swore he could still hear her heart beating as he grabbed baby Sammy from his crib.

No. Not a_ hero. Not by a long shot._

That had been determined long ago, the day he'd returned home from the war. There were no parades or shouts of American pride.

Some spit on them, some threw rotten tomatoes, others hurtful words. But whatever they threw they seldom missed, opening his emotional wounds further.

Mary had always called him a hero. She'd repeatedly try to comfort him throughout their marriage telling him what a good heart he had.

If it weren't for his boys and the need to kill one evil thing after another he might have ended this fucked up life by now.

He was no hero. But he was a warrior. And by heaven or hell or Purgatory or whatever other dark wormhole that was out there… he would do whatever he had to do to save all that he had left – his boys. To save as many other families that he could along the way.

"Mary," he whispered her name, a tear forming in the corner of his right eye. John sucked in a breath, refusing to let it fall. "I won't let you down again. I won't let our boys down either. I know these boys deserve better, but this is all I have to give. I'm doing my best."

He watched the firelight flicker across the reflection of his stern features and then quickly threaded his fingers into the holes of the knife's handle. He pressed the super-sharp edge into the lifeline on his open palm, drawing the blade deeply through his flesh. He didn't flinch as blood welled and he quickly set the knife down, snatching up the Mason jar beside him. Curling his fingers around to form a fist, he squeezed tightly. The _drip, drip, drip_ of his soldier's blood plinked one drop at a time into the glass jar matching the pounding of each beat of his aching heart.

Collecting enough blood, John screwed the lid on the jar and packed it away in his rucksack, along with his knife.

The fire was dying out, blackness creeping closer around him. He tossed another log on the fire and glanced back out at the forest line. He'd expected the boy's back an hour ago, worry setting in, but not enough to take action. Night had come fast, too fast. It always did. Twelve years ago John would have been comfortably asleep in his easy chair with Bonanza playing in the background. His most pressing thought: coming up with the mortgage payment for this month. Those years were but a dream, a beautiful dream that would never again come to pass.

The thoughts that pressed on his mind and strained his heart these days: Should he fail or should he die, his boys needed to know this life, needed to be able to fight. To slice and dice up every evil thing out there with or without him.

Unlike him they needed to become heroes.

Before the powerful presence of evil took over their lives, John had dreamed of another family business – of buying out his partner.

**Winchester and Winchester** he'd name the garage.

Teach his boys the ins and outs of auto mechanics.

He shivered hard, where once they all would have been up to their elbows in grease and transmission fluid; now they would always and forever be waist deep in blood, and guts, and horror.

John swallowed hard. Picking up a nearby stick, he stirred the pile of glowing ash beneath the crackling logs. He'd never intended to play the 'how fucked up is your life' game, let alone drag his two young sons around and around and around the game board with him. But here all three of them were. In the backwoods of Pennsylvania, sleeping in tents, training to be soldiers, caught up in a war not many knew about, fighting hidden killers, and living on the run. It was as far away from what he and Mary had dreamed of for their boys as they could ever possibly get.

Dropping the stick, John glanced around. The huge bushy shapes of the forest's dense trees surrounding their campsite bent to the will of the wind, shadows casting across the ground. John was thankful it was a clear night. The moon was full and overly bright and the stars were more than anyone could count in a lifetime.

The look on his young son's face before he'd blindfolded him broke John's heart. But it had to be done. Sam would find his way back. He was sure of it. The kid may be scrawny and a smartass, but he was his father's son. Besides, he'd put Dean on Sammy detail with instructions not to interfere unless the kid was truly heading into harms way.

Sighing, John turned his attention to the cast iron pan that sat on top a wrought iron rack over the heat of the orange flames. He picked up a steel spoon and stirred the red beans, rice, and ham hocks that were starting to burn and stick to the bottom of the pan. Garlic, onion, and chili powder invaded his nostrils and he licked his lips. Mary had always made fun of his everything - including the kitchen sink - style of cooking, but she ate the food with a smile.

"I'm so sorry, Mary," he muttered.

He knew she would not approve of his childrearing tactics, he didn't approve either. He'd once been a churchgoing man. Would sit and pray for hours that his boys never saw the face of war, never knew the true hardship and horror as he had.

His boys needed to be worried about their report cards. Worried that their hair wasn't parted right, or about asking the cute girl, sitting at the next desk over, out for a soda. They should be trying out for the football team, going to movies, working at pizza shops. Screaming out loud because they left their stomachs at the top of a roller coaster, not because their father was about to get his lights punched out by a vengeful spirit. They shouldn't be dreaming about werewolves and shape shifters eating them alive. They needed to be dreaming of what they wanted to be when they grew up.

They shouldn't be on this camping trip training to be what he never was.

"Damn it," John sighed heavily.

No. His boys got to do none of those normal things. Dean had been a grownup since he didn't remember when, and Sam –

John shook his head leaning in closer to the fire staring at the white-tips – the hottest part of the flame. He worried about that boy most. He was so much like him.

The blaze flickered and danced, taking on the shape of distorted faces of evil. _You couldn't save her. _ They taunted him, and dared him, and mocked him. That night was still so vivid. How he freaked. Folded to the nursery floor in fear, staring helplessly up at 'his' Mary, blood filling her white nightgown, an unnatural fire burning the flesh from her bones, her eyes glued to his – for the moment very much alive.

That was the night he began believing in true evil. That was the night he stopped praying to God.

John sat back, once again taking up the stick and poking at the logs. Shifting them, sending orange sparks and puffs of white smoke up toward the stars. He hated these Rambo training excursions, more than he knew his boys hated them. He was a father after all. He wanted to coddle his boys, dote on them like he had when they were young. Lavish them with gifts, a bat, a ball and glove, buy Kansas City Royal season tickets, sit around the campfire making Smores and telling ghost stories and later laughing about them.

The wind blew, sending a shiver straight through to John's soul. Sadly, ghost stories were real, and there would be no lavishing of boyish gifts, other than rifles and ammo. No peanuts and crackerjack ballgames. No,' sorry, I burnt the marshmallows', camp outs.

All he had left were his two boys and a deep seeded need for revenge, and to keep what was left of his family safe. He'd never stop hunting, not even after he found and killed the thing that took his adoring Mary from him. And if turning his children into soldiers of war was the only way to keep them safe, keep them alive…so be it. Whether he hated doing it or not was no matter.

John's thoughts and the quietness of the night were suddenly and gratefully broken by the nocturnal call of a lone Whip-poor-will.

Turning his attention away from the light of the fire to the darkness of the perimeter he waited and listened, but heard nothing more.

A short minute later, Dean slipped out of the woods looking no worse for wear. If anything he looked cleaner and more rested than when he'd left camp.

John smiled proudly. At sixteen, his oldest was capable, confident, if not cocky, and completely deserving of the title, second-in-command.

"Where's Sammy?" John straightened his back as Dean approached.

Dean sat on the stump opposite his father, and grabbed a nearby tin plate, serving himself up a man-sized portion of beans, rice, and hocks. "Holy crap, I'm starving." Dean's eyes darted about, searching.

John bent down. "Here," he grouched, picking up a fork off his own emptied plate and thrusting it at his son.

"Thanks." Dean took the offering and quickly filled the fork with food and shoveled in a mouthful, chomping heartily.

"Your brother," John snapped impatiently.

"Oh, yeah," Dean mumbled around the pulverized food and holding up a 'just a second' finger.

John watched in annoyance as Dean swallowed, the lump of food sliding down his son's throat much the same way he'd seen snakes swallow their prey hole. He shook his head. Damn the kid could eat, unlike his scrawny brother who pecked at his food like a baby bird.

Dean burped, "That's better."

"Dean," John growled his annoyance.

"Sorry, Dad," Dean apologized. "I followed the dork and kept my eyes on him at all times…just like you said." Dean took another bite, this time a smaller one. "Nerd head-butted three trees, skinned his knee, and probably bruised his ass before he finally Houdinied his way out of your square knot and ripped off the duct tape and blindfold." Dean pointed his fork full of beans and hocks toward the woods. "Geek's coming in hard from the Northeast, about one-hundred yards out. Should be here any—"

Sam stumbled out of the woods huffing and puffing like a train.

Dean offered his dad a smug look, then went back to shoveling.

Sam took a second to gather his legs under him and catch his breath_. Must be nice to sit all warm and snug around a campfire, filling your belly, not a care in the world. _Sam thought as he looked on at his Father and Dean.

"Whatever," Sam murmured under his breath, making his way over. He _didn't want to belong to that clubhouse anyway._

"You're late," John said sternly. "Next time I expect you to highball it back faster."

"Sorry, sir," Sam muttered softly.

"Don't be sorry, solider, just do it. Here." John tossed him a sweaty bottle of water.

Sam deftly caught the container though it was as wet and slippery as a bar of soap. "Thanks."

John said, "There are still a few bites of dinner left in the pan."

"Not hungry." Sam glared at their dinner scrunching his face up as he twisted off the cap and downed half the bottle. All he wanted to do was sleep – for a week.

Dean sat – an interested observer – but said nothing as he continued to shovel food into his face.

John eyed Sam's torn jeans. "That needs to be treated." He nodded at Sam's bloody knee.

"It's nothing," Sam stated softly, tousled overgrown hair hanging in his eyes. "I'm fine."

John ducked trying to peer behind the curtain. _Damn it! He could never read that kid._

"Hustle," John snapped in his no-arguing-allowed tone.

Sam pressed his lips together making a straight line to the rucksack by John's side, digging out the first aide satchel.

"And if you don't plan one eating…you can hit the hay. You'll be on breakfast detail in the morning. Understand?"

Sam nodded mutely, tucking the med-kit under an arm and shuffling off toward the tent.

Dean sat quietly, eating slower than slow, watching John, watching Sam.

Once the kid had unzipped the tent and crawled inside, John turned around and started stirring the ashes of the fire again.

"He did good today," John spoke first, not taking his eyes off the flames.

"I wish you would have told him that," Dean said softly, setting his plate on the ground beside his feet.

"I wish he would do better…be flawless." John squared his shoulders and made eye contact with Dean. "You took to the life easy, with Sammy, it's a tough sell."

"He's only twelve, dad. Sammy's different, smart and creative. He should be hitting the books and worrying about his first kiss."

"He needs to be worrying about what I'll do to him if he doesn't clean those wounds out."

"I just think –"

"Dean, "John spoke, no nonsense in his voice, "I know he's different…stop reminding me of that…but being different does not make him immune to the shit out there. In this family every solider will march to the same tune and row the same boat. Now go," he sighed heavily, "Go see that he disinfects properly and you both can hit the sack." John broke the stick he'd been stirring the fire with in half and tossed it into the flames.

Dean hesitated.

"Drills tomorrow, going to turn you woman into men," John lightened, the corner of his lip curling up almost into a smile.

Dean knew this conversation was over; wordlessly he got up and headed toward the tent.

John stared back into the flames and pulled a silver flask from his coat pocket.

This was his army.

A father, who on good nights drank too much coffee, and on bad nights too much whiskey, a sweet, cowboy-pajama- wearing toddler who hardened into a man overnight, and a scrawny, teary-eyed- pup- of- a- boy with bedraggled hair who just couldn't seem to understand.

TBC

AN: Story is complete. More chapters will post soon.


	3. Soldiers In The Making

RAMBO TRAINING

_Chapter three_

_"Drills tomorrow, going to turn you woman into men," John lightened, the corner of his lip curling up almost into a smile._

_Dean knew this conversation was over; wordlessly he got up and headed toward the tent._

_John stared back into the flames and pulled a silver flask from his coat pocket._

_This was his army._

_ A father, who on good nights drank too much coffee, and on bad nights too much whiskey, a sweet, cowboy-pajama- wearing toddler who hardened into a man overnight, and a scrawny, teary-eyed- pup- of- a- boy with bedraggled hair who just couldn't seem to understand._

/~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~/

Dean wrapped on the outside of the tent and called out, "You decent in there, sweetheart?" He smirked knowing he wouldn't get an answer. "You better not have your nose in any of my skin mags, man." He stifled a giggle.

It remained quiet inside the tent.

"Sam, you do know the not talking crap is creepy and pisses me off right?"

Not a peep.

"I'm coming in, ready or not," Dean warned, unzipping the tent and poking his head inside.

Sam sat with his back to him shoulders drawn up and hunched over.

"Dude! What I tell you about cleaning your rifle when we're sharing space?" Dean snipped irritably.

"Just leave me alone, Dean," Sam squawked, fumbling with a flashlight in one hand, and a piece of bloody gauze in the other.

"Hey, just chill out princess bitchface," Dean growled, entering the tent all the way and taking a second to zip the flap shut behind him. "What are you doing?"

"What's it look like?"

"Like you're fixing up your knee."

"Gee, Dean," Sam shot him an evil glare. "How'd you figure that out all by yourself?" he barked sarcastically, going back to the tender wound. "Owe," Sam hissed picking at the frayed ends of the hole in his jeans to expose the knee better.

Dean sat cross-legged in front of Sam and eyed him up and down noticing the number of smaller scratches and bruises the kid had all over his hands, arms, and elbows. "You're such a klutz. Are your shoes too small again?" Dean nudged one of the said shoes.

Sam pulled his foot away in a huff.

"Haven't I told you a thousand times, you've got to learn how to balance on those giant-ass clown feet of yours? Find your center of gravity." Dean stood up; balancing on his right leg and bringing his left knee up. "Like this. See." He struck a crane pose while fluttering his hands in the air. "Balance good," he chuckled. "Be tough Samuel-son," he laughed harder.

"Stop with the Karate Kid crap, Dean."

"If do right, no can defense," Dean said, using his best Mr. Miyagi accent, then kicking out with the leg he'd been standing on. "Shit," he squawked losing his balance and plopping back down to the tent floor with a thud.

Sam huffed, completely annoyed and frustrated. "Need a body bag?"

"Bite me," Dean hissed.

Sam went back to dabbing at his scrapped knee, jerking at the sting of the peroxide and causing the flashlight to slip from his other hand.

"Give me that, Chief Whoopsi-daisy." Dean nabbed the gauze pad away from him.

"Stop it with your stupid crap, Dean," Sam protested, trying to nab the bloodied swab back.

"Your crap's stupider than my crap," Dean replied roughly, picking up the flashlight and handing it back to Sam.

"I can patch myself, Dean." Sam pointed the light at his knee.

"You can...but you don't have to," Dean softened his tone, nabbing the brown bottle of peroxide and wetting a fresh gauze pad from the med kit. "Just hold the light steady, will you?" He tentatively inspected the abrasion.

Sam bit into his lower lip, cutting off a grunt of pain.

"Dude, I barely even touched you yet," Dean grouched, going for the tweezers. "Got a lot of dirt and gravel stuck in here, Sammy," he said with sympathy as he began to pick out the little bits and pieces embedded in Sam's skin. "Bend your knee so I can get at it better."

Sam winced as he bent his knee keeping the light shining on the shredded, bloody skin and secretly grateful for his big brother's doctoring.

Dean dabbed and blotted at the scrap gently, while blowing to take away the sting of the peroxide.

"I know you were watching me, Dean," Sam blurted out.

"What are you talking about, bro?" Dean tossed the dirty gauze pad aside and reached into the med kit for the antibiotic salve. "I don't like to watch." Dean glanced up and waggled his brows suggestively. "I like to do."

"Whatever." Sam rolled his eyes at his brother's sexual innuendo. "Dad thinks I'm ready for anything," he blurted out and looked away.

"But you're not?" Dean questioned.

"You don't think I am," he said narrowing his eyes at Dean challengingly.

"What are you talking about?" Dean busied himself spreading the antibiotic salve over the raw area of Sam's knee generously.

"I know it was you scampering around in the woods."

"Wasn't my idea to escort you like the Junior Prom Queen you are," Dean admitted knowing he was caught cold.

"Dad did?" Sam looked surprised.

"He worries about you, Sammy." Dean shot Sam a look, retrieving a clean piece of gauze pad and placing it on Sam's knee.

"That's bullshit," Sam deadpanned.

"Watch your mouth," Dean said in his best second-in-command tone. "Or I'll give you an attitude adjustment." He secured the white square in place with medical tape.

"Oh, no," Sam muttered boringly. "Not another head noogie."

Dean smirked. "There are other things I could 'noogie' besides your head, Samantha."

Sam scowled.

"Why the bitchface now, bitch?"

"Just…Dad…he acts like he worries about us and then…" Sam shrugged at a loss for words.

"Sam, stop worrying about what Dad worries about and you'll handle dad's tests better. Just chill out," Dean tisked at Sam's knee as a small bloodspot seeped through the bandage.

"I can handle dad's tests without you hovering over me, Dean," Sam muttered quietly, scooting away from Dean.

"You could," Dean eyeballed Sam seriously, "If you didn't have spaghetti arms and legs," he laughed.

Sam punched Dean in the shoulder. "I can handle it," he said again.

Dean smiled punching him back. Sure, Sam did an awful lot of fumbling and falling. He was young and still in training, awkward and needing to form muscle. But the kid had a spirit that was an unstoppable force and for every time he fell, he got back up again.

"I know you can, Sam," Dean said with an edge of pride in his voice, not even bothering to look his brother in the eye as he gathered the supplies back into the kit.

Sam bent his knee, examining the bandage.

"Don't pick at that," Dean instructed firmly. "In the morning I'll change the dressing and put more cream on it."

Sam sighed, scooting into his sleeping bag and lay his head down. "You want to kiss me goodnight too, Dean," he said turning onto his side facing away from Dean.

"Haven't' kissed you goodnight since you were two, so can the attitude or the next punch is going to be to your smart mouth." Dean crawled into his bag next to Sam. "Don't forget, I like my eggs over easy."

"And your bacon extra crispy," Sam grumbled.

"No chemistry experiments with the coffee either…make sure it's strong and black."

"What am I, Dean, your live-in maid?"

"No, but you are my live-in bitch, bitch," Dean laughed.

"Sick," Sam made a sour face like he was sucking on a lemon.

Dean stopped laughing, mirroring Sam's look. "Yeah, forget I said that." He rolled over and snuggled down in his bag. "By the way, dude. I don't scamper. I swagger," Dean paused, "Like Jagger.

"I'd laugh, Dean, but I have to go to sleep." Sam pulled his sleeping bag up over his head.

"I'd noogie your head, but I wouldn't want to injure your brain further," Dean shot back.

"Goodnight, Sam."

"Goodnight, Mick."

"Smartass."

/~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~/

The sun was out but it was still chilly. Crouched over the fire pit, Dean forked the sizzling bacon over to one side of the pan, cracked the eggs, and then scrambled them. Then he buttered the toast he had browning on the wire rack. He was no fan of these military backwoods excursions, but waking up to fresh brewed coffee and bacon and eggs cooking over a crackling fire, for some reason, made him smile.

He heard the zip of the tent flap and peered up to see Sam stumbling over, sleeping bag hooding his head and wrapped tightly around his body - mummy fashion.

"I was supposed to be on mess hall duty, Dean," Sam complained groggily, plopping down hard on the boulder his father had been perched on last night. "Why didn't you wake me?" He slipped the bedroll off his head, still holding the rest of the down-filled bag tight around his shoulders. "Dad's going to kill me." Sam starred blurry eyed at Dean, long hair popping up all over the place. "And then he's going to kill you," he added.

"You got a real problem with that anal probe, don't you, Sammy?" Dean snickered.

"Dean, don't call me –"

"So what's it going to be, Sam?" Dean interrupted. "Bacon and eggs, eggs and bacon, bacon eggs and toast, just toast, just eggs, just bacon?"

"Boys," John called from a not-far-off distance.

Dean shoved the fork he'd been using to cook with into Sam's hand roughly, and then hustled over to the other side of the fire. "Shhhhhhh." He put a finger to his lips.

Sam flipped the sleeping bag off his shoulders and it plopped to the dirt. Quickly he crouched down over the iron fry pan, pushing the food around with the fork.

John came into view and stepped up to the fire, bent down and poured a cup of coffee. "Smells really good, Sammy," he said sounding very pleased. "You two finish eating. We'll clean this mess up after our morning workout. We move in fifteen." John patted Sam's shoulder and then stomped off, steaming mug still in hand.

Sam cocked his head in wonderment at his father's brief show of affection, something he didn't do often during training, during anything. "Thanks, Dean," he muttered, "For not not tipping dad off."

Dean pointed a stiff finger at Sam. "I am the master of all things. Don't you forget it."

Sam pouted, pressing his lips together as he served up the food onto a tin plate and handed it over to Dean.

"It's true." Dean shrugged digging into his pile of eggs. "Sammy, admit it."

"Don't call me that," Sam grit out his teeth angrily.

"Why the hell not?"

"'Cause I don't want you to."

"So why's Dad get to call you, Sammy, Sammy?" Dean mumbled around a mouth full of yellow.

Sam growled low in his throat," 'Cause he's dad." He heaped his plate full of eggs and swiped a piece of toast. "And 'cause you're a jerk." He took a big bite of eggs.

"My god you are a weird-o." Dean glanced up from across the smoke. "How's it taste?"

"You burnt the toast," Sam mumbled around a mouthful.

"What? No way." Dean shoved an entire piece of toast into his mouth. "Bro," he garbled. "'S friggin' awesome." He swallowed. "Just like me," he added nonchalantly.

"Blah, blah, blah," Sam groaned, shoving an even bigger bite of eggs into his mouth.

/~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~/

"What are you two doing out there? Picking daisies?" John hollered from his perch on top a large mound of dirt in the center of the open field. "Move your asses."

Dean poured on the juice.

While Sam fell behind him a few steps.

"Sammy! I said pick it up," John bellowed.

Sam's legs were shaky and his knee was still sore and swollen, but he forced himself to obey, scrambling to match Dean's bigger strides once more.

John smiled. "That's my boys," he whispered to himself.

Deep down it killed John to put his children through the mental and physical paces most adult men wouldn't be able to handle.

He had no choices here.

They had to learn to be tough.

Pick themselves up when they fell.

Not cry out when bleeding or in pain.

Like Ninja Warriors, they had to be stealth, move through the shadows undetected and efficient.

Today they were running an obstacle course. A circular track John had set up himself. With high walls of large downed trees to climb over, prickly brush to crawl under, mud pits to belly crawl through, hurdles of barbed wire fencing to jump. All while lashed together at the wrists with only a few feet of rope between them. Being tied together was a good thing. It taught the boys to be aware of the other guy at all times. To work as a team. Move as one. That was something that came natural to Sam and Dean, and this exercise only heightened that tendency.

During training, John wasn't a dad, he was a drill sergeant. _Hell was he ever a dad?_ Training never ended. And his sons…they were his recruits, soldiers in the making. Not just learning how to live the hunter's life, but survive it as well. The family business wasn't a job, it defined who they were and he made sure all his exercises were intense and rough. With each new training session, pushing Sam and Dean harder and harder.

John cast a suspicious eye about the area, watching out for any subtle movement. Be it animal, or human, or monster. If so much as a simple leaf blowing on a breeze threatened his family, John would capture the wind and strangle it in his bare hands.

He was military.

Always tense and ready. Ready to jump into battle, and ready to jump into the fiery pit of hell without a second thought for himself, if that was what it took to keep his boys safe.

Sam trotted alongside Dean, huffing and puffing for breath. Every step Dean took, Sam had to take two just to keep up.

John shook his head. Sure Sam was younger and smaller, but it was clear that the boy was having a hard time. He felt a twinge of guilt. Knowing Sam's knee and other bruises he obtained on his blind-mans- bluff excursion had taken a toll. Still, Sam had to learn to play through the pain.

A Winchester had to forge on.

/~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~/

"How's the knee?" Dean glanced over at Sam worriedly.

"Yeah," Sam muttered between sucking breaths of air. No way he would complain or let Dean down. If one failed they both failed. That was dad's test.

Dean nodded, knowingly. "Maintain pace, Sam." Looking ahead, he said, "There's a hurdle coming up." Dean winced at the steel fencing, sharp points twisted into knots. "We both need to clear the fence at the same time, kiddo," he uttered between breaths.

Sam nodded, head dropped in determination – a fire in his eyes.

As they fast approached the four-foot barbed wire fence their father had constructed, Sam winced. If they didn't clear it, they'd both be in some serious pain tonight.

Dean gathered up his end of the tether. "Hold on, Sam."

Sam followed suit.

With just enough tension between them they could feel each other's slightest directional change without having to speak a word. The ground turned rocky and rough, still Sam and Dean kept their footing.

"We got this, Sam," Dean encouraged.

Three more long strides and they took flight in unison, left foot leaving the ground, then the right.

Dean gave a slight pull of the tether, both carrying their weight over the fence and clearing the bundled wire with ease.

They touched down exactly at the same time, heels first, then rolling to their toes, never missing a beat and picking up their perfectly-timed pace once again.

Dean narrowed his eyes at Sam. "You look rough, bro." Dean tugged Sam closer to his side as they ran the last of the course.

Sam caught a breath. "I'm good," he panted.

Dean looked across the field to their father who stood tall and vigilant on top the mound of dirt. A hush fell over the area like a mountain top covered in snow. John Winchester was a hero. The stuff true legends were made of. Like a lion watching out over his kingdom, he surveyed the area with a thirsty-for-blood- wrath that could burn a hole straight through anything that may have so much as pissed their way.

Sam frowned, following his brother's gaze and shivered. That look on their father's face always scared the crap out him.

They danced around a slalom course of beer cans, large rocks, buckets, and other odds and ends.

Sam suddenly tripped up, catching his left foot in a hidden hole their father had obviously dug. He whimpered out loud as pain spiked through his already injured knee.

Thinking fast, and ever so subtly, Dean gathered up the slack yanking him upright and continuing them both forward. "You okay?" he barely whispered, keeping his eyes straight ahead.

Winded, Sam gave a tiny nod, sweaty bangs jostling across his forehead, gaze fixed on the ground.

"Good job, boys, keep going," John's powerful voice bellowed out over the field.

Dean suddenly slowed their pace.

"Dad's watching," Sam said unnecessarily.

"Don't give a waitress's ass," Dean said with venom.

Three more hurdles and a fifty-yard dash brought them to stand before their father, nostrils flaring, breaths coming fast, hearts pulsing in an unnatural rhythm.

"Why'd you slow down out there, Dean?" John stepped off his dirt mound perch with a no-nonsense attitude sparkling sharp and clear in his eyes.

Sam opened his mouth to say something, but Dean beat him to the punch. "Sorry, sir," he said, looking his father straight in the eye and abruptly limping on his right foot. "Blister popped."

"You think I'm short on brains, Dean?" John kept his heated gaze locked on Dean's.

"No. No, sir," Dean stated with loud and clear certainty, knowing his father not only had acute Spidey senses, but had a built in bullshit radar that rivaled no other.

John rolled his eyes at Dean, and then squinted at Sam.

The kid's face was red and sweaty, his shirt soaked in wetness, and he was breathing in and out at a rate of hyperventilation.

Sam's head drooped slightly, big, round, sad puppy eyes peering up at John.

John grimaced. Mary would often times get that look when she wanted him to do something. It was a painfully sad look that always made John's heart melt.

John drew his shoulders back and stiffened his spine. "Good save out there, Sammy. That hole was well hidden."

"What?" Sam's eyes shot wide. "No. I did-"

"Yay! Sammy! Way to hold on to the ball." Dean intercepted.

John looked curiously between Sam and Dean.

Sam and Dean waited quietly. If their Commander and Chief so ordered, they'd have to run the course again – and do it better.

"That'll be enough for today then." John gripped both boys' shoulders and gave a gentle squeeze, then spun them around; pulled out his war-made knife, slipping his fingers into the four holes, and gripping it tight as he cut them loose. "Sammy," he ordered. "You get back to camp." He tipped a chin towards Sam's knee. "Change that bandage and clean up the breakfast mess. You've got one hour downtime and then you two will be hitting the trail I blazed for you." John gruffly waved a hand in the air. "Go."

"Yes, sir." Sam did his best not to hobble as he did what he was told, heading back to camp without so much as a glance back at Dean.

John watched Sam's retreating back until Sam was out of earshot and then turned his gaze on Dean, lines creasing his brow. "You two were doing well out there. You don't even need the rope to stay in sync anymore."

Dean smiled widely. "We are awesome," he said in a honey throated voice, relaxing his stiff soldier's stance.

"Damn it, Dean," John bellowed. "You take me for a fool?"

Dean immediately straightened back up, wiping the smile from his face, eyes going blank.

"Your brother's still young enough to merit slack, but I am way past the point of letting you off!" John yelled, and then shook his head "Yet I keep doing it. And you keep covering for your brother."

Dean frowned. "What?"

"I know you made breakfast after I was completely clear that Sammy was to do it." John began to pace circles around Dean, hands clasped behind his back. "And don't think I didn't see you pull his ass out of that hole." John's eyes were like heated lasers burning right through Dean. "I told you a thousand times. You… have… to stop…babying Sammy…stop treating him differently." John drew in a deep breath then let it out and said, "He has to learn to be a solider, Dean, in this hunter's life –"

"Dad, I –

"No more, Dean!" John came to stand before Dean and held up his traffic cop's hand. "You know the score. Most of us die bloody and young," John gave it to his oldest son straight and raw. "The more Sammy knows, the stronger he can be, the longer he can last out there. Fight the good fight."

Dean fidgeted uncomfortably.

"Any way you size it, Sammy has to learn to stand on his own. Just like every other hunter on the planet," John said with finality, dropping his traffic cops hand to his side and balling it into a fist.

"It's Sam," Dean mumbled, looking down, one booted toe pawing at the dirt in annoyed frustration.

"What?" John leveled Dean with his hungry-lion look.

Dean dared to level his father with a heated glare. "In case you didn't know…he likes to be called Sam," he said more tightly, trying not to flinch under his father's glare. "And Sam is no solider, he's not like us. He's just a kid."

John bit down on his lower lip and glanced off into the distance. Fear knotted his throat and sadness trolled through his heart. "Sam," he whispered. _Why hadn't he known that? A good father would have known that. Mary would have known that. _ His eyes brimmed with tears, he wanted to cry uncontrollably. He wanted to fold up and die. He was so torn. He never wanted this life either, but here he was. Here they all were.

John glanced back at Dean, his eyes immediately going bone-dry as the image of Mary burning on the ceiling bled into his mind.

_Life as a Winchester was dark and the boys had to be strong._

John cleared his throat, "Need I remind you of that night, Dean?"

A vision of fire and smoke and heat and his mother's sweet smiling face swam before Dean's eyes.

"No, dad," Dean sucked in a shuttering breath. "No…sir…you don't."

That's my boy."

The soft hitch of John's breath as he swallowed a sob didn't escape Dean's attention.

"Now go check on your brother."

Like a hurricane Dean turned away, trotting off back toward camp, secretly wiping tears from his eyes, knowing his father was doing the same.

John stood silent a few moments, trying to rid himself of that all-inclusive crushing of his heart, the rush of blood in his ears, the weight of his burden, the unobtainable scattering of a handful of wishes he once held tight in his fist. Oh, how he wanted to be a normal dad who dealt with runny noses, and sibling rivalry, scrapes, cuts, and bruises, taxes, and a nine-to-five job.

It was enough to make a grown man fall to his knees and cry. And he had and would a million times more. Alone and hidden from the prying eyes of his children.

"They drew first blood, not me," John whispered as he fought the urge not to drop to his knees right there. He swiped a hand down over his face and headed across the field to check the sigils wards he'd carved into the trees, walling off their training area, and rechecking the trail he'd blazed for his sons.

TBC


	4. Wizard of Ozzy Osbourne crap

RAMBO TRAINING

Chapter four

"_They drew first blood, not me," John whispered as he fought the urge not to drop to his knees right there. He swiped a hand down over his face and headed across the field to check the sigils wards he'd carved into the trees, walling off their training area, and rechecking the trail he'd blazed for his sons._

/~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~/

John never blazed an easy trail. Never left the obvious arrows to follow or the clichéd broken branch or ripped piece of material. John's trails were much more subtle. He changed direction often, and abruptly. Barely leaving behind a clue, a shifted pebble here, a single leaf pressed harder into the soil there, or a broken spider's web.

The tiniest of things were the things most folks overlooked.

Not a Winchester.

A fine, cold mist falling down between the trees dotted their faces and made the trail even harder to follow. Dean glanced at his wrist watch. Only 1 p.m. and the forest was already cloaked in shadows, the earlier chattering of animals dying out.

Ten minutes later gray clouds moved in and a light sprinkle began to patter against the leaves.

Sam let out a soft moan.

Dean shot him a look.

Kid trudged silently alongside him, looking damp and cold and miserable. All hunched over, arms clung around his mid-section holding the flaps of his jacket together as the zipper had broken months ago. His hair was poker straight, drops of moisture sliding off each pointy strand that hung down over his face, behind which a deep scowl wrinkled his forehead.

"How're you doing?" Dean asked hopping easily over a fallen, bug-ridden log, totally knowing how exhausted from yesterday's training Sam was.

"Copacetic," Sam snipped, finding another one of dad's small near-invisible notches etched into a tree veering right through a thorny tangle of wild roses.

"My God you're a dork," Dean grossed, following behind.

"Yeah. You've said that before." Sam hissed, favoring his injured knee.

"Want to stop?" Dean followed closely, the pointy thorns snagging against his leather jacket

"Right," Sam growled. "Because that's what dad would want us to do."

"Sam, dad wants us to –"

"Save it, Dean." Sam stiffened. "I know exactly what dad wants us to," he shot, bunching his jacket tighter around himself. "Just keep going."

"I know your beat," Dean surmised, digging a hand in his chest pocket. "I've got Tylenol."

Sam let his arms drop to his side and squared his shoulders. "I'm fine."

Dean didn't miss the shiver that ran through his brother head to toe. "Here, take my jacket," he said as he unzipped, opening the jacket up pulling an arm out.

Sam stopped dead in his tracks and whirled around glaring at Dean. "Stop," he spat angrily.

"I am stopped, bitch," Dean said, looking at Sam as if he were a complete idiot.

Sam rolled his eyes. "Stop babying me, Dean. Dad said so! I heard him."

Dean took a minute to think about that, remembering his father's words. _You know the score. Most of us die bloody and young. Need I remind you of that night, Dean? _ Ice-cold fingers scraped down Dean's back making him shiver.

"Screw dad," Dean said. "You're taking the jacket."

"No. I. Am. Not," Sam said, his tone cold and even and die-hard.

"You sound just like him," Dean drawled, pulling his arm back in and zipping the jacket closed once more.

"I am nothing like him, Dean. Just shut up already."

"Fine. But the next thrift store we come across," Dean stepped up into Sam's personal space and poked a weighty finger into the kid's chest, "I'm buying you a new coat and shoes."

"Thrift store crap isn't new, Dean."

"They're new to you." Dean glared at Sam a moment. "Buy you a new purse to match, too," he smirked, balling a fist and punching Sam super-hard in the shoulder.

Sam yelped, rubbing the spot. "What was that for, you jerk?"

A smile played on Dean's lips. "That was me, not babying you, you bitch." He plowed past Sam "Come on," he muttered pointing out a large, moss-covered rock with a dime-sized spot where some of the green was scuffed off. "This way," Dean said, disappearing into the gloom.

For a moment Sam stood alone, misty drizzle pattering against his shirt collar and running down his back. He shivered, looking around the forest.

It was unearthly quiet. No birds, no chipmunks, just the soft sound of water hitting the leaves like candy sprinkles. Not even the sound of Dean's boots hitting stone and earth could be heard.

He wasn't like dad. No way. Not now. Not ever. Dean on the other hand. Especially when it came to training and hunting. Dean was the sum of everything dad. He had a fearless, boundless, never-say-die energy. He never seemed nervous and he never faltered. Why couldn't Sam handle things more like Dean? Dean had the heart of a real solider. Sam…he was a work-in-progress that probably would never get finished. He'd never make dad proud.

That was more annoying than the sloppy, sticky, squeezed in the middle mess Dean always left their toothpaste tube in.

Sam clenched up all his muscles. There was something sneaking up behind him. Not that the something made a sound. Sam just sensed it.

He slowly reached down for his knife that was clipped to his belt. Just as he pulled the blade out and was about to whirl around and attack, Sam found himself on his backside staring up at –

"Dean!" Sam grunted. "You scared the crap out of me," he said, shoving Dean off him and getting up to his feet.

"Literally." Dean started laughing his ass off. "I can smell you."

"Bite me."

"Right." Dean stopped laughing and got red-hot-dad serious. "What the freak, Sam? Standing here daydreaming… vulnerable. What if I was a black dog, or a flesh eating zombie clown, or worse, some dude with a fog machine and a friggin' chainsaw?"

"Stupid." Sam showed his knife before sheathing it. "I heard you. Could have stabbed your eye out," he said, trying to sound confident.

"Right, man, from the flat of your back," Dean said, quirking a curious brow.

Sam turned his head away, eyes watering up saying nothing.

"Look, quick tip, Sammy, don't clench up next time. Keep calm and act like you don't know something's sneaking up on you. Surprise the surprise with a surprise."

Sam wrinkled his forehead in confusion. "Big surprise, Dean. I don't want this, any of it," he said, then quickly trotted off down the path. "It's stupid," he shouted back. "And one day I'm going to fine a way out."

"Yeah," Dean said sadly under his breath. _Damn his brother for being a nosey bitch. Reading dad's journal and growing up the second he did. _

"I know you will, Sam. I know you will." Dean tipped his head skyward and let the light patter of rain hit his face before jogging after him.

/~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~/

They'd been hiking in the rain for three hours. Still following the trail their dad had blazed. Up and down treed hills, stepping across the stones of several small, fast-moving creeks, and through an empty field of waist high grass until they came to a chained off road. A rusted metal sign hung from equally rusted metal chain links. It read:

_**Trail Closed. No trespassing**_.

"Huh." Dean cocked his head to one side.

"Double huh," Sam muttered beside him.

They stood a moment, staring beyond the chain at a lumpy, clay-covered road that continued downhill and traveled back into the woods.

"Doesn't look like anyone's been this way in years," Dean noted, taking in the narrow, overgrown road.

Sam looked up at Dean. "Are we about to change that?"

Dean glanced around, pointing to their right through a thicket of weeds, some of the vegetation matted down. "Dad's trail takes us that way."

"So," Sam squawked. "Why do you always do what dad wants?" Not surprisingly to Dean, Sam stepped in defiance of dad over the chain and stomped down the road, his boots sinking in the muck as he went.

"Sam, get back here," Dean scolded.

Sam ignored Dean, cutting through the thick woods and disappearing into the shadows.

"Damn you, Sam." Dean hopped the chain and stopped. "Going AWOL for a burger I get," he shouted after Sam, "Going AWOL just to defy dad, come on! Why do you have to be such a lame bitch?" Dean growled to himself trotting to catch up.

The light shower had suddenly stopped; either that or the rain just couldn't get past the tightly packed trees to the forest floor.

They passed bushes of berries and a pile of chopped wood, and finally came to stand in front of a tire swing strung up with a thick rope that was wrapped around the branch of a large Sycamore tree. The rubber tire eerily moved back and forth in the unseen breeze.

"That's kind of creepy," Sam muttered staring at about fifty girls and boy's names and dates and hearts carved in the tree's trunk.

"What's so creepy about Disneyland for dwarfs? " Dean laughed, grabbing hold of the tire. "Dwarf," he laughed harder shoving the makeshift swing roughly at Sam.

Before Sam could spin away the tire knocked him upside the head and he stumbled back a step. "Watch it, Dean." he rubbed at the offended spot.

"Shrimp, you watch it," Dean chuckled. "And besides, that's nothing compared to what dad will do to you when he finds out you went off trail."

"Who's going to tell him?"

Before Dean could decide the answer to that question, Sam broke in. "Hey, check it out?" Sam pointed through the trees to a small clearing.

Dean followed Sam's finger, eyeing a metal, rusty- green shed-like structure. The words 'Troop 477' carved on a wooden sign above the door.

Dean flashed a devilish smile. "Dude, Girl Scouts." He dropped his stick. "Think we'll see a naked –"

"Dean!" Sam scolded, a sick look crossing his face as he hurried past his over-sexed brother.

"What?" Dean asked innocently, racing to catch up to Sam. "You don't like Girl Scouts?"

Sam made a noise of absolute disgust.

"Maybe you'd prefer Red-hot Riding hood."

"Stop with the fairytale porn," Sam said, unable to move away from Dean fast enough as he headed straight for the cabin.

"Hey!" Dean squawked out worriedly. "Hold up." He roughly grabbed hold of Sam's forearm stopping him mid-way to the front door. "What's your problem, man?"

Sam tsked, "Everything with you is about sex, man," Sam snipped. "That's my problem."

"Geek boy doesn't even know what sex is," Dean snipped back.

Sam rolled his eyes.

"Listen to me," Dean leveled Sam with a serious look. "We approach every building with caution," he paused to eyeball the cabin. "Even the girly kind," he said cocking a brow. "You know better, Sam. "

No more talk was required. Day-to-day interaction, dad's training, and instinct had fused them as a team ages ago.

Changing their gait to the stalker's walk, they closed in on the cabin in unison. Dean kept his eyes trained on the lodge; while Sam scanned the edges of the woods.

Branches swayed in the wind, and umbrella-like seedpods sailed around them like tiny flakes of snow. Only normal noises of the forest ensued. Nothing seemed to be out of place. They took the two wooden steps leading up onto the porch quietly. Dean drew a small caliber pistol from his waistband, while Sam put his ear close to the lock and silently went to work. It was the kind of lock they used for their school lockers, the kind any petty thief could crack in sixty seconds – Sam cracked it in ten. The shackle fell open and he stuffed the lock into his pocket.

Dean nodded his approval and Sam drew out his hunting knife, eyes never leaving each other's.

Wrapping his had around the knob, Dean twisted ever so slowly. 'Stay behind me,' he mouthed, inching the door open and slinking cautiously into the dim-lit cabin.

Slow moving shadows swept across the dirt-covered floor, immediately sending Dean into a gunfighter's stance, weapon aimed upward. Faint sunlight struggled through the scattering of leaves of a grimy skylight. The light streaming in illuminating strange, dainty, glittery decorations that were strung up with string and gently twirling in the wind blowing through a crack in the skylight's glass.

Dean had never seen so many shades of pink. Rose pink, bubblegum pink, hot pink, punch pink, poodle pink, barely pink, blush, coral, flush, fuchsia, rose, roseate, salmon and sparkling 'Sleeping Beauty' pink.

He shook his head. "What the fu-"

"Not Red Riding Hood, Dean. Girl Scouts." Sam pushed past Dean and stepped further into the large, squared off room, knife still in hand. "They're just arts and crafts butterflies."

Dean continued to stare upward, mouth gaping while Sam scoped things out.

Corner-to-corner the room was pretty emptied out; aside from an old yellow mop and bucket leaning against a small sink counter, a dozen wall-mounted metal bunk beds, most missing their mattresses, a busted table and chair set, and a ratty patch-work quilt draped over an equally ratty couch.

"All that friggin' pink…is just creepy," Dean announced, shoving his gun back in his waistband.

"What'd you think you would find, Dean? " Sam asked, done with his nooks and crannies scan.

"Tagalongs." Dean flashed Sam a huge smile, waggling his brows.

"You sure it's a cookie fetish you got going on? 'Cause you look like you look just before you have sex with a girl."

"Dude. Stop spying on me when I have a chick in the backseat of the Impala." Dean left the front door open, venturing over to the sink counter and started opening cabinets. "Damn. No cookies," he muttered.

"Gross, why would I want to spy on you?" Sam drawled out giving the empty mop bucket a kick with his foot and watching it roll a few feet away.

Dean poked around the bunk beds, getting that something-strange-feeling. "Something's not right here."

"Yeah, no hot chicks for you."

"No, that's not what I'm talking about."

"What then?" Sam came to stand behind him.

Dean crouched, peering under the metal frame.

"There's nothing here." Sam said but started to fidget, gripping his knife tighter feeling his brother's uneasiness and trusting in his instincts.

A cold, electric chill suddenly swept in out of nowhere. "I knew it," he muttered, grabbing Sam by an arm and drawing him to his side. "Salt, get it out now." Dean shoved his gun away, and pulled a small container out.

Sheathing his knife, Sam did the same.

Just then dust, dirt and leaves spun like a mini-tornado in the center of the room, whipping the salt containers from their hands, and sending the few objects in the room flying.

There came the sound of tiny, scuttling feet and the cry and screams of a bunch of invisible girls.

"Time to go," Dean ordered.

As if on cue, the door slammed shut and blood bubbled out of the cracks and coated the handle.

The cabin began to shake, reddish-brown spray splattering across the walls, striping the floor, and dripping from the butterfly decorations above.

"Dean, what's happening?" Sam nudged closer to his brother as the blood slicked his hair and stung his eyes.

"Watch it." Dean hunched protectively over Sam as the mop bucket flew their way. It hit Dean in the back knocking both boys down to their knees, before banging against a far wall and falling still to the floor.

"Dean." Sam groped to stand, but slipped sideways, flailing in the tacky liquid that oozed slowly out of every crevice.

"Come on, give me your hand," Dean shouted.

Sam twisted about, dizzy and disoriented by the rattling cabin and the onslaught of blood.

"Now, Sam." Dean grabbed hold of Sam's jacket hauling him toward the door and yanking on the blood-slick handle. It wouldn't budge. "No, no, no," Dean breathed. "Shit." He glanced quickly around. "We're on lockdown."

Sam fearfully noted the ghostly screams of the children growing louder. "We're not getting out of here."

"Yes we are," Dean snapped, shouldering into the door, pounding wildly, again and again.

The door still didn't budge.

"Oh, son of a bitch," Dean murmured, bent over at the waist hands on his knees trying to catch his breath. "What the hell?"

Sam looked all around. The invisible children still wailed, blood-red slopping and swirling along the floor. "It's got to be some sort of residual haunting," he noted as none of the invisible children seemed to be aware they were there.

"Residual. Keyword, Sam, they're only sight and sound, they don't interact. How do you explain the blood? And moving objects?" Dean sloshed to the center of the room, looking up at the skylight; which also slowly oozed blood down on them like a hot molasses shower.

"Obviously something happened here to a lot of kids, Dean. The energy levels must be so high it activated some sort magnetic field that is capable of …"

"No time for the Nutty Professor crap, Sam." Dean shook his head, swiping blood out of his eyes and pointing a finger upward. "Come here, up on my shoulders."

Sam looked up at the skylight. "I still won't be able to reach that, and it's probably locked down like the door."

"Shut it, short-shit, we have to try." Dean laced his fingers together and Sam stuck a slick boot in. "It's already got a crack in it. Maybe it's weaker than the door."

"Dad must have known about this." Sam grouched angrily as he climbed up onto Dean's back and sat on his shoulders.

"Yeah think? And his trail led us away from here until you decided to disobey orders" Dean said accusingly. "So let's just stow the dad crap," he yelled, helping Sam to go from sitting on his shoulders to standing.

Sam stood shakily on Dean's shoulders.

"Can you reach, Sam?"

Sam stretched every muscle, his fist just barely brushing against the skylight glass. "No."

Dean looked around, his gaze landing on the bunk beds. _He could kick himself sometimes for not thinking things through. _"Come on, Dean." He rolled his eyes. "Sam." Dean reached up to help the kid off his shoulders. "I got an ideee–"

A blast of artic air suddenly blew in out of nowhere, sending more blood and every other object in the cabin spinning around them in a windy blur.

"What Wizard of Ozzy Osbourne crap is this?" Dean yelped as the mop bucket whipped by at lightning speed again, this time just narrowly missing taking off his head.

Dean grabbed Sam in a bear hug dropping down to both knees. Pulling Sam in close, he hunched over him creating a big brother shield.

Sam gripped Dean's jacket, his fingers twisting the material and holding tight.

The sound of the screaming children was replaced by the loud cracking of the cabin's walls and skylight above. Faster and faster the wind spun, both Dean and Sam huddled on the floor barely able to breathe as it took their breath away.

"Sam," Dean panted right in Sam's ear. "It's okay, Sammy." He held on as hard as he could.

Dean was losing strength. He felt his knees rising up off the floor. Felt Sam being sucked out of his arms.

"Dee," Sam squeezed out in a tiny voice, his hold on Dean's jacket slipping as he was being lifted away from him.

"Noooo!" Dean yelled, lurching forward further and pinning Sam to the floor with his body, practically crushing the boy under as he battled to keep them both grounded.

Just when Dean thought he couldn't hold out any longer the freak cyclone abated and then ceased.

Dean picked up his head and looked about the cabin. Everything was back the way it had been. Pink decorations back to dangling, the mop bucket back in its corner, only a few drops of blood dripping here and there.

Sam squirmed frantically underneath him, the kid's face still mashed against the wooden floor. "Dean! Get," he wheezed, "Off," he gasped shoving upward.

"You didn't say the magic word," Dean snarked scooting back off Sam.

"Please," Sam muttered, face flushed, the rest of him shaking as he clambered up to his feet with Dean's help. "Thank you."

"Welcome," Dean said dryly.

The front door suddenly banged wide open and Dean swiftly shoved Sam behind him.

TBC…


	5. Like Peanut Butter And Jelly

RAMBO TRAINING

Chapter Five

_The front door suddenly flew wide open and Dean swiftly shoved Sam behind him._

/~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~/

"You two are not supposed to be here!" John stood in the doorway, shoulders squared, jaw clenched.

"Dad." Dean went rigid, crowding Sam further behind him.

"I blazed that trail for a reason, Dean." John shot them a dogmatic. "You were to stay on it."

"This cabin's haunted," Sam piped up, bravely making to step around Dean

"Sam." Dean held him back with a firm hand pressed to his chest.

"Not anymore it isn't," John spat. "Burned a cave full of bones…now get your AWOL asses back to camp."

"You're hunting, and whatever it is…it's still out there." Sam finally squirmed past Dean, seeing right through his father.

"Maybe." John grimaced at the dangling decorations still dripping blood. "I haven't caught its scent yet."

Dean frowned deeply, just noticing the rucksack slung over his father's shoulder, realizing what was going on. "Why didn't you tell us?"

"You didn't need to know." John zeroed back in on Dean. "That was as long as you followed orders; which you usually do, Dean."

"You're hunting," Dean scuffed. "While we're in Rambo training," Dean kept on, anger filling his tone. "While Sammy played blind-man's-bluff in the woods?" he asked completely appalled, heart racing, palms sweating.

"Watch your tone, solider…" John took on long stride inside the cabin doorway. "Keep to the trail I blazed. You'll be safe. Wait for me back at camp. You have your orders."

Dean opened his mouth.

"Enough!" John yelled, before Dean could say another word. "If the Onekama is still out there it wouldn't be able to get in past my sigils...the entire training camp is warded off. I know what I'm doing, Dean."

"A demon bear," Sam interpreted quickly. "They walk on two legs like a human and only eat horses."

John's eyes lit up. "Yes, Sam, exactly…but this one decided a cabin full of seven-year-old Brownies was easier pickings." A strange look crossed John's face.

"Dad?" Dean frowned in confusion, fighting to catch his breath and his strength as he'd used up just about every ounce trying to keep Sam from being sucked away. "What is it?"

There came a deep throaty growl from outside.

"Shit." John quickly opened his rucksack. "Boy's get! Now!"

Before he could reach inside, a heavy, dark mass burst through the cabin door and hit him square in the chest knocking him to his ass.

The rucksack slipped off his shoulder, thumping just inside the doorway, at the same time a yawning mouth full of teeth swiftly latched onto John's right leg dragging him from the cabin

"Dad!" Acting on pure reflex, Dean lunged after him. He reached out managing to wrap both arms tightly around his dad's upper body, holding on for his father's life.

Everything was a whirr of confusion. Seriously alarmed, Dean struggled to gain his bearings.

Forceful puffs of hot, putrid breath assaulted his nostrils.

Dean raised his head, blinking the splashing mud from his eyes as he was dragged along on his knees. Only a few inches of air separated him from the black-as-asphalt shaggy haired creature, with tusk-like horns sticking out the top of its head and glowing red eyes. It was obvious this was no honey-eating, escaped circus bear.

John tried to kick the creature with his free leg as hard as he could, the effort having little effect.

The hairy beast only bit down harder on the leg it had in its mouth and shaking its head angrily.

John thrust his head back, staring skyward his face contorted in pain, yet refusing to cry out.

Dean's body responded with a rush of adrenaline as he caught his breath. "I've got you!" he yelled over the grunts and growls of the monster bear reinforcing his hold on his father.

Dean quickly estimated the demonized bear was a good four hundred pounds, its jaws a massive steel trap that kept clamped down on his dad's right calf, white ivory sinking into deep, soft flesh. His father's face was ghastly white and blood began to seep from between the bears teeth, soaking his jeans, yet he remained strangely calm and quiet.

The bear's black nostrils flared and dripped watery snot, forepaws planted heavy and firm in the mud as it tugged rearward relentlessly.

Dean's added weight slowed it down, making the bear work harder for its meal, but somewhere in the back of his mind he knew if he entered into a tug-of-war game, his father's leg would be ripped from his torso.

Fear-filled seconds past, Dean locking eyes onto his father's –awaiting orders.

John shook off the profound shock. There was little time. "Ru –" he choked on his pain, turning his head away. "D'n, ru…" his voice broke off again.

Dean's heart repeatedly slammed against his chest until it stuck there_. No way he would let go and run. If he did that his father would certainly be dragged off and killed instantly._

Ignoring his father, Dean instead focused back on the bear. His heart nearly stopped as he stared into eyes that seemed to grow redder with each tug.

The bear almost seemed to smile at him.

Dean sneered back. He so badly wished for a third arm so he could reach his gun tucked into his waistband – blast that smile right off the bitches face, gut it and skin it. He couldn't afford to lose his grip. Without his added weight, slowing the bear down the demon bear would surely haul his father off deep into the shadows of the forest – a full course meal – before Dean ever even made a reach for the gun.

"Get off him, you bitch," Dean bellowed, panting for breath.

The bear had a one-track mind. Only clamping down harder on John's leg, gurgling and gulping, mouth now dripping strands of clear, thick slim in anticipation of its meal.

Yaaaaaaaaaahhhh! "A loud whooping battle cry came from behind. "Yaaaahhhh! Yaaaahhh!"

"No," Dean croaked. In his panic and rush to save his father, he'd forgotten about Sammy.

Sam skittered and splashed through the mud coming up alongside the large bear. Bravely he raised his knife high, spiking the blade in the side of the animal's neck in hopes of finding the jugular.

Direct hit.

He yanked the knife back out. Blood spurt like a fountain splattering across Sam's face.

The bear didn't as much as flinch, teeth clenching, holding strong.

Sam raised his knife high again, keeping pace with the bear, searching for another spot that might hinder its progress. His hands were clammy and cold and shook like an old mans, but the rest of him was sweaty-hot. His chest was tight, heart racing like the wind as he struggled to keep his wits, stay calm.

_Breathe in through your nose and out through your mouth, steady your fear_. His father's training kicking in, he went to stab out one of the glowing red eyes.

"Sammy, gun," Dean whispered, barely able to exert the extra energy to speak, struggling to keep it together, keep a hold of their father.

Sam stopped mid-air, forehead crinkling with confusion.

"My gun," Dean repeated more forcefully.

Wide-eyed, Sam dropped the knife to the blood-red dirt. Skittering toward Dean, he kept his sights on his brother's gun poking out from under his jacket.

As if reading their minds, the bear shook its massive head jerking John and Dean this way and that, making it hard for Sam to get a handle on the gun.

"Dean, no. In ru– ru –" John's words were stifled by his first cry of pain, his eyes clouding over.

Dean frowned at his father. He knew the man inside and out. Why didn't he notice before? His dad's expression wasn't matching up right. He didn't want him to run.

_Crap!_

Dean drew in a lungful of air, "Sam. No! Dad's rucksack…the rucksack! Hurry! Sammy, hurry," he yelled, his hold on his dad slipping.

John's cloudy eyes brightened – proud and impressed. T_hat's my boy._

Sam was scared, flipping out even. He fought his fear down best he could, desperate to steady his pounding heart that somehow had made it into his burning-dry throat. Sam gave a curt nod and turned tail from his family, racing raced back toward the cabin.

The ground was slick with mud and he was scared, his legs shaking, but he didn't slip or stumble once. Only falling to his knees when he reached the cabin doorway where the rucksack still lay.

With trembling fingers, he sifted through the various items: salt, accelerant, a machete, a wooden cross; it's base whittled to a dagger-like point, a bible, a bottle of Jack, a glass jar full of a red substance marked H. B.

Behind him, the bear growled loudly, and his father and brother grunted and groaned between gasps of breath, still being dragged like a couple of helpless hamsters.

Sam's brain circled through the many books of monsters, myths, legend, and lore. They were never enjoyable reads. They were his father's book club list. His dad's way of making sure Sam had a complete understanding of the supernatural world – the books just as much a part of his training as tracking and firearms.

Lucky for Dean and John Sam was a compulsive reader, no matter what he was reading.

This day, Sam was grateful he not only followed orders and read the entire book club list, plus a few of his own, but processed the information and stored it.

Like a runaway bullet ricocheting around inside of his head, he recalled how to kill a Onikuma.

He needed a cross dipped in hero's blood. _H.B._

Fingers numb and still trembling, Sam struggled to untwist the lid of the glass jar.

He had never killed a flesh-breathing monster before. He'd hunted a few annoying ghosts, burned a few bones, but thus far his job had mostly entailed research and training and cooking. He'd never experienced this kind of close-range- life-or-death situation.

But this was up to him.

Sam dipped the shaved point of the cross into the blood, and quickly stood. Weapon in hand, he made a mad dash toward the bear, but didn't get far. In his awkward, inexperienced haste his oversized shoe had gotten caught in the rucksacks straps and he stumbled landing him to his already injured knee.

Ignoring the pain, Sam untangled himself and got back to his feet, running as fast as possible.

He was horrified to see the creature was at the thick brush of the tree line, Dean and his dad still being lugged along helplessly.

John's leg was still clamped down in its mouth, Dean hanging on for dear life, both soaked through with mud and boneless with exhaustion.

As Sam fast approached, the demon bear's head whipped up and it paused sniffing the air. The creature pawed the ground with one huge clawed foot, grunting and eyeballing Sam for the first time, calculatingly.

The frenzied, wild look in its eyes froze Sam in his tracks. Somehow the thing knew what he was about to do. The bear sniffed again, eyes shifting to the cross in Sam's trembling hand.

"It smells the blood," John grated out clenched teeth, weakly inching up to his elbows.

Dean's eyes went wide with fear. "Sammy, go back. Go back, now!" he yelled, just as the bear released his father and charged the kid at top speed.

Electricity shot up and down Sam's spin, body quivering with terror. Training taught him he couldn't out run this. He had no choice. He stood his ground and raised the blood-dipped cross high.

The bear didn't slow and was almost on him when a gunshot rang out.

A bullet clipped the bear in the left hind leg, taking out a chunk of fur and leaving a bloody gouge.

The bear slowed, twisting to inspect the wound.

Dean struggled up to his feet, unbalanced, gun shaking in his hand, eyesight foggy and dream-like.

Sam stood motionless, bloody cross still in hand.

"Sammy, get out of there," Dean yelled, firing off another round.

This time the bullet exploded into the demon bear's right side.

It was little more than a bee sting, and the bear didn't even respond to Dean, instead its gaze went back to Sam.

Dean dropped to one knee in hopes of steadying his aim, lining up a bullet shot to the bastards head.

John inched over to Dean, clamping a hand his arm. "Dean, no," he ordered firmly from where he lay sprawled on the ground.

Ignoring the order, Dean's finger closed further on the trigger, but he couldn't take the shot.

The bear and Sam seemed to be caught in some sort of strange ritual dance, circling one another, Sam waving the bloody cross back and forth in front of him.

The bear's eyes glowed fiery and unafraid, searching for its chance to lunge.

Dean shook his head; muzzle of the gun following the bear's every move.

"Dean-o, you could hit your brother," John soothed. "Besides, bullets won't do squat against that thing. Let Sam handle the situation." John jammed a hand over the gun, preventing Dean from taking another shot.

"He's not ready," Dean whispered nervously.

"Give him a minute," John said firmly, letting his hand slip away from the gun. "He's ready. Has to be," he added quietly.

Dean bit into his lip and let up on the trigger some, but remained in firing position. _Sometimes his father really was a horse's ass. Why the hell was he so eager to put Sammy out on the ropes?_

"We might not always be there for him," John answered as if he'd read Dean's mind, "It's a matter of survival, son. He has to learn to protect himself."

The demon bear outweighed Sam by who knew how much. Dean knew his father was right. One day some shadowy monster would corner his brother and if he and dad weren't there…Dean winced. It went against every fiber in him to let Sam have a go at it. The imaginary sound of his brother's bones being crunched between the teeth of that bear made him sick and sent a chill through his soul. Yet, he obeyed his father.

Both Dean and John watched from their position on the ground.

Sam made the first move. Going in hard, he lunged out jabbing the point of the cross at the bear's chest.

The bear reared just in time, the bloody point missing its heart, a large paw smacking out and catching Sam in the right shoulder.

Sam flew sideways and nearly planted him in the mud, but quickly caught his balance, kicking back up to steady feet. Not sparing a glance to his shoulder, he whirled just as the bear used its giant paw like a shovel and blasted Sam with a face full of debris and mud.

"Guh," Sam squawked, blinking hard, his eyes stinging and irritated from the bits of gravel and tiny pieces of sticks and leaves implanted in the mud.

The bear continued to paw at the ground, huffing and puffing and clacking its teeth.

This wasn't normal. This should have been nothing more than a kid's bad dream. He wanted to wake up. To a mother sitting on his bedside holding his hand, a father playfully ruffling his hair telling him it would all be all right.

Fear engulfed him and he started to cry.

_Can't let an injury or pain or fear slow you down, stop you from doing what you need to do. You don't ever stop. You fight the fear__._ His father's voice was so strong in his ears._You have to learn to be capable of handling any situation you find yourself in, Sammy__. You __may not always be able to rely on all your senses._

Through blurry eyes, Sam watched in slow motion as the bear came up to its full height and stood on two legs in front of him – an eight-foot towering mass of muscular, black, cranky, hungry, swatting, pissed-off demon bear determine to take Sam out.

Sam wanted to run, but he held his ground.

Leather, gun oil, and the faint smell of burnt toast drifted into his nostrils. Two abnormal heartbeats and the rapid breathing of his family steeled his nerve.

Gripping the cross, hot and heavy in his hand, Sam took two fast steps forward, blind instinct shoving the point of the blood-coated cross up and into the demon bear's heart.

Immediately the bear dropped to all fours. Its mouth stretched wide open, teeth glistening as it let out a horrible, rattling roar, sputtering drool and blood into Sam's face. It took several rushed steps forward, its head hung low and swaying.

Sam stumbled backward fast, slipping in the mud and falling to his ass.

"Bull's-eye!" Dean squealed like a girl in his excitement, jumping to his feet, firearm still at the ready though it was certain the monster bear had met its doom by his baby brother's hand.

The Onikuma's roar turned to a dry rasping. Its trembling body flickering neon-blue and electric-white, hair and flesh sizzling as it cooked right off its bones.

Afraid the bear might actually explode, Sam frantically crab-crawled backward until a tree stopped his retreat. He leaned against it, exhausted and mouth open, panting to catch his breath.

"Good boy," John whispered, gripping his leg and putting pressure on the seeping wound.

All eyes were on the bear while it quivered and bent and twisted.

Fireballs suddenly flew from its dying body in every direction like meteorites.

"Great balls of fire," Dean shouted, he and his father flattening against the ground just as one of the flaming, red-hot balls struck a nearby tree, another one deflecting off a rock.

Luckily, the impacts were so powerful it snuffed the fireballs right out, leaving behind only puffs of ghostly black smoke, nothing catching fire other than the bear.

It didn't take long for the monster to charbroil and evaporate into nothing.

Sam shot Dean a haunted look, not bothering to get up from where he still huddled against the tree, body zapped of all strength, head wobbling loosely about on his neck.

"Sam, Sammy!" Dean shoved his gun into his waistband and raced over to him in a flurry of feet that seemed to be jet-propelled.

John struggled upward, doing a one-footed hobble, heading over toward his son, dragging his injured leg stiff and bloody behind him.

Dean slammed on the breaks before he could go headlong into the tree, dropping down to a crouch beside his brother. "Hey, hey," he cupped Sam's chin holding the boys head steady. "I've got you."

"I'm o-okay," Sam garbled weakly, spitting droplets of mud from his mouth.

"Let me see you," Dean panted disbelievingly. "Just let me see you." He eased Sam's head to rest against the tree trunk, both hands roaming and frantically searching for injury.

"D'n, d-don't," Sam protested.

A few seconds later, John came to lean against the tree, eyes following along while Dean looked the boy over.

"Son of a bitch," Dean gasped in astonishment. "Bumps and bruises," he shook his head. "He only has a few good bumps and bruises."

"Tol' you." Sam rolled his eyes at his brother, shifting he glanced up through muddy strands of hair at his father. "I disobeyed. "Went off the trail."

"You did." John rubbed his grizzled chin, staring deeply into Sammy's big, round, scared eyes. "And don't you mistake me here, son, orders are orders," he said coolly, grimacing as he adjusted his weight more onto his good foot. "But you remembered what I taught." He gave an approving nod.

"Yes, sir," Sam choked the words out, entire body still trembling.

John pulled a flask from his coat pocket, took a large gulp and swallowed.

The thought of losing Sam, losing Dean, scared John more than any evil ass monster out there ever could. But he had to remain the leader. Strong. Exact. Abandoning his fatherly feelings would be abandoning his sons. It was a force he wrestled with every damn day. He had made a pledge the day Mary died. Breaking that pledge was not an option. No matter how hard this was for him. Watching his boys suffer and fight the same as him...it hurt…more than he could ever imagine, but if he had to give up his very soul…he'd see that pledge thru.

John felt the tears of sadness creeping up. "Meet me back at camp," he ordered and hobbled off.

'Daddy,' Sam mouthed, fighting back his tears.

"Just stay here a minute, Sammy," Dean soothed, trotting after their father.

"Dad, hold up." Dean stepped in front of their father and shrugged out of his jacket, then took off his flannel as he bent down to inspect his father's leg injury.

"See to Sam, Dean. I'm fine," John grit the order out between clenched teeth.

"Can't stitch this," Dean informed, ignoring the command, knowing the difference between drill sergeant and father.

"It's a puncture wound," he growled heatedly.

"It'll be fine, Dean." John chugged more drink swiping. "We are all fine," he justified.

Dean pursed his lips, tying the flannels shirt's sleeves around his father's leg with a significant amount of force.

"Easy with that, will you." John wiped a shaky hand across his lips.

"This should hold for now," Dean said, standing in front of his dad, hands fisted at his side, body trembling with anger.

John took Dean by the shoulders. "It was a good hunt…a good lesson," he stated in a matter of fact way.

Dean shook his head sadly.

An awkward, dead silence floated between them.

John grimaced, hoping on one leg and taking another unsteady swig of his flask peering over at Sam who still sat – back erect –against the tree, eyes blown wide in shock, blood-covered cross still dripping in his hand

"The boy won't get taken down without a fight," John mumbled breaking the silence.

"He could have been killed," Dean snarled.

"He wasn't," John retorted his voice strained with pain. "He made a dead shot to the heart…half-blinded," he added, with an edge of pride, still watching Sam. "You know there comes a time when a boy has to be a man. This would be one of those times, Dean." John tottered sideways, eyes back on Dean.

"You mean a solider in the field." Dean reached out to steady the man. "He's only twelve," he whispered.

"He's a Winchester," John volleyed. "Fighting and hunting and killing things is what we do," he said sternly, waving off Dean's help and tentatively putting some weight on his injured leg. "Now obey my orders and go finish seeing to your brother." He hobbled off.

"Dad – "

"Now Dean, and don't forget the rucksack," drill sergeant John shot his final order over his shoulder.

Dean watched their father/Commander-and-Chief walk away.

The man was sometimes a total ass, okay, most times, but he was also a real hero.

Dean had snuck a peek at his Father's journal years ago. Read how he and his buddy Caleb had smartly survived a week in the rainy forest separated from their platoon. Both injured and carrying nothing more than homemade hunting knives, flint stones, and two ragged sleeping bags between them. Not to mention how many times Dean had seen his father in action, crushing monsters to the ground –sometimes with only one hand. He knew his dad held more love for his family in his little pinky than most people had in their whole entire bodies. He just couldn't show it as often, and especially not during training. He understood his dad had to keep a rock-hard fist. It was the only way they would survive. Still…it didn't make things any easier.

Sam's strangled grunt from behind grabbed Dean's attention and he hurried over the small distance, dropping back down to a crouch next to his brother. "It's over, Sam. It's done." He took the freaked-out kid by the arm.

Sam jerked away nervously, his breathing labored to near stopping.

"Hey, easy," Dean whispered. "You sure you're all right?"

"I…just…a li'l… dizzy…. c-can't stop…stop shaking," he said trembling from head to toe, panting out of breath.

Dean nodded in understanding. "Adrenalin. Just rest a second, you have to wind down," he said softly. "It's okay, Sam. Let me just check out this shoulder again. It's the worst of it." Dean chewed on his lower lip carefully lifting Sam's shirt and peeked at his shoulder where he'd seen the bear's paw that had sent Sam tumbling.

Sam sniffled, his head bobbing up and down.

"We are so damn lucky." Dean tenderly probing the deep-purple area, "This isn't anything that a bag of ice duct tapped to your shoulder won't heal up."

Sam sniffled louder, leaning forward into Dean and burying his face into his jacket.

"Sam!" Dean scolded softly. "Stop mopping your snot on me."

Sam sucked wet mucus to the back of his throat and swallowed.

"Gross, man, knock it off or I'll be forced to dig out that weird, blue snot-sucker-thing I used to have to use to clear out your nose when you were little," Dean threatened with a chuckle.

"Shuddup," Sam whimpered.

"Come on, now." Dean eased Sam forward.

Sam's face was pale-green, breathing still rapid, mouth tight.

"You know you did great, Sam."

Sam shook his head no.

"What do you mean no?" Dean sat up straighter. "You killed that demon bear," he said with a big smile. "Hands down, dad and I would have been toast if it wasn't for you, man."

"I was afraid," Sam whispered, furiously working on not crying.

"So what," Dean muttered, picking at the mixture of dirt and leaves stuck to Sam's sweaty cheek, and snagged in his hair. "You held it together, Sam."

Sam shrugged and began to shake harder.

"You feel sick don't you?"

"Stomach's queasy."

"Slow, deep breaths or you're going to pass out," Dean ordered, firmly pushing Sam's head down between his raised knees.

Dean had dealt with these full-on adrenaline rushes himself before. But seeing his little brother's body go through what a man could barely handle was killing him. He wanted to play it safe with Sam. The kid had found out far too soon the truth. The truth Dean had tried so hard to block Sam from. That was bad enough. Was bad enough Sam knew and researched every bad thing under the sun and moon, but now…now he had to fight every bad thing under the sun and moon too.

"Close your eyes," Dean said softly.

Sam shook his head, no.

"Sam, I know my job here. We need to get you calmed down. Now listen up." Dean shaded Sam's eyes with his hand. "Keep your eyes closed and focus on each breath. We're going to count backward staring with one-hundred. You got me?"

"'Kay," Sam wheezed.

Dean started the count.

Sam inhaled, struggling along for a few minutes, fighting to do as Coach Dean instructed. His foggy brain was slow, but working. Number-by-number, breath- by-breath, the adrenaline drained away. His heart rate slowed and breathing turned back to normal.

When Sam reached the number twenty, he let out a long sigh, body going limp and heavy.

"Sam?" Dean questioned worriedly removing his hand.

Tears pricked at Sam's eyes and he looked away. The last thing he needed was for Dean to see him cry. Though his vitals were fairly back to normal, he still didn't feel fine. He was still shaking and scared to death. What if he hadn't been able to kill the demon bear? What if he lost his dad and brother? They were all he had.

Dean nodded, seeming to understand as he slid down to the ground and leaned back against the tree with Sam.

Dean continued to eyeball Sam for a long time.

"Stop looking at me," Sam snapped, turning to glare at Dean.

"Can't help it, Sam," Dean gave a light chuckle. "Your hair looks like chicken feathers," he said, reaching up to smooth the 'sticking up all over' strands down flat.

"Don't." Sam smacked his brother's hand away. "I'm not a chicken."

"Didn't say you were," Dean said with a chuckle, knowing his teasing would distract the kid.

Sam was still determined to keep strong, but in truth he was happy to have Dean in his personal space. They always did feed off each other's strength. They trusted each other when they wouldn't trust anyone else, sometimes not even dad. He needed Dean to know he could handle this. Even if he felt like he couldn't.

Dean didn't push any further. No longer joking. "You handled yourself real good there, Sam, really good." Dean spied the bloody cross still in Sam's hand and reached across Sam for it. "Can I have this now?"

A tiny moan escaped Sam's lips as he relinquished the weapon. "Thanks."

"I know… I'm a pretty cool big brother." Dean winked.

"Where'd dad go?" Sam questioned, finally noticing their father was nowhere in sight.

"His usual par-for-the-course… he's fine, Sam. He headed back to camp to lick his wounds in private."

Sam wrapped his arms around himself as a chill entered his bones and closed his eyes tight, and shook his head fiercely. "He's – "

"Proud of you, Sam," Dean interrupted, wiping the blood from the cross on his jeans.

"If he's so proud, why doesn't he say it?" Sam started to shake again, watery eyes drawing open to connect with Dean, scared and sad and unsure, all at the same time.

"Dad doesn't work like that, Sam, and you know it."

"Why does it have to be this hard?"

Dean pulled Sam to his feet. "Same reason you're so damn short," he laughed.

Sam shoved Dean away and headed down the path back toward camp.

"Sam!"

"Not talking to you, Dean." He picked up his pace.

"Aw, Sammy, come on." Dean jogged over to the rucksack, shouldering and quickly following behind Sam. "Sam. Wait up."

Man his dad and brother were like peanut butter and jelly. Whether they knew it or not...they just went together.

AN: Tag to post soon.


	6. Understand?

RAMBO TRAINING

Tag

/~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~ ~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~/

**You gotta understand somethin'. After your mother passed, all I saw was evil. Everywhere. And all I cared about was, was keepin' you boys alive. I wanted you prepared. Ready. So somewhere along the line I uh, I stopped being your father, and I, I became your, your drill-sergeant ~**

**John Winchester - Dead Man's Blood 1x20**

/~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~/

_"Dad doesn't work like that, Sam, and you know it."_

_"Why does it have to be this hard?"_

_Dean pulled Sam to his feet. "Same reason you're so damn short," he laughed._

_Sam shoved Dean away and headed down the path back toward camp._

_"Sam!"_

_"Not talking to you, Dean." He picked up his pace._

_"Aw, Sammy, come on." Dean jogged over to the rucksack, shouldering and quickly following behind Sam. "Sam. Wait up."_

_Man his dad and brother were like peanut butter and jelly. Whether they knew it or not they just went together._

/~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~/

They sat quietly grouped around the burning campfire, the warmth and glow emanating out into the darkness.

The hunt was three days behind them now. The boys had gone back and burned the cabin down for good measure, while John nursed his leg wound with a few pills and a bottle of whiskey. But tonight John preferred to feel the pain.

He sipped at his coffee gripped tightly in his right hand, mesmerized by the fire. The ashes glowed red- burning hot, bluish-orange flames licking at the logs as if to taste them before ingesting. Wisps of black smoke swirled around the flickering blaze, sparks popping and shooting upward, but then quickly dying out.

Fire…it was a living breathing monster he knew he could never kill.

John took another sip of coffee swallowing harshly, the thumb of his left hand gently caressing the picture he held there. _God, he would _forever _smell her flesh burning in his nostrils, taste her death on his tongue, the horror and trauma would never fade from him–body or soul._

He stared across the fire at Sam who held a long roasting stick in his hand, jabbing a white, puffy marshmallow onto the pointy end.

He was damn proud of that boy. Sam had used every ounce of strength and heart and determination. Sure the kid was shaken up, but he wasn't broken.

John recalled his first hunt, alone in a deep dark cave. He'd gone into his first hunt solo, full of grit, only to stumble out shaken to his very core dropping to his knees and crying quietly, face in the dirt. The six-eyed, mouth full of teeth giant worm was dead, sure, but he'd barely escaped alive. He'd trudged from the mouth of that cave an exhausted, bloody, sweaty, emotional mess. He'd thought killing something would quell the awful pain of losing Mary. But the power of his grief was beyond his wildest dreams and the storm inside him had only grown stronger. It was after that first kill he knew there was only one way to stop his pain. He had to leave his old life behind. Take his boys far away from their warm, loving home and hit the road. Train them up. Find and kill the thing that killed Mary.

He glanced over at Dean whittling a sharp point to his own roasting fork. After that night...the boy had been traumatized to not speaking, his boyhood life changed forever. But the four-year-old had bucked up fast, faster than he could ever have imagined. Even while Dean still wasn't talking, he'd picked up the slack when John couldn't even find the strength to roll out of bed. Dean took care of Sam. Feeding, changing, and bathing the infant, snot-sucking his nose with that weird blue thingy.

Sam was Dean's salvation.

Dean's first hunt had gone down without a hitch. John literally had to grab the knife from the eleven-year-old, prying it away from his gripping fingers as the boy wouldn't stop killing the berserker that was already long dead. It was as if Dean was born to the life. There was something primal and fearless and fiery inside of him. The boy was a true hunter.

"Dean, stop hogging them all!" Sam's loud protest interrupted John's reverie.

"Who's gonna make me?" Dean snapped back.

John sighed, folding the old black and white photo of Mary and carefully slipped it back inside his wallet, looking up to see Dean shoving yet another marshmallow onto his already loaded-up stick.

"Dad," Sam whined. "Dean's hogging all the marshmallows."

"Only a dork cooks them one at a time," Dean smirked, finding just the right spot and twirling his shish-kabobed puffs slowly.

"Work it out," John ordered, glaring at them.

"I'm not talking to him," Sam informed his father defiantly.

"Tell your brother, not me," John said blandly, going back to his coffee.

Sam shifted sideways to face Dean. "I'm not talking to you, Dean."

Dean shrugged. "Whatever, man."

_That's our boys._

John smiled hearing Mary's voice in his head when they'd found out their second child was also a boy.

Their lives might be screwed six ways to doomsday, but at least there was one thing in their lives that was normal – sibling rivalry. Sam and Dean competed, argued, joked, and sometimes punched each other testing their way through their brotherhood.

John knew they'd become more than brothers as they fought their way through the river of sewage this evil world kept hidden from normal folk.

His boys had gotten awful quiet causing John to raise his eyes from his cup.

Sam finished browning his single marshmallow and popped it into his mouth, reaching for the Jet-Puff marshmallow bag between them, taking out another one.

Dean deftly snatched the bag up loading up a second stick.

"Stop being a jerk," Sam's head snapped up, eyes flashing angrily at Dean.

"Who's going to make me, dork?" Dean retorted, laughing and hogging the bag once more.

John made an animal-like growl deep in his throat.

Dean stilled immediately, attention snapping up to his father.

'_You're looking at him,_' John starred without blinking.

"He's not supposed to be talking to me," Dean protested, boot scuffing the dirt in obviously annoyance.

John squinted eagle-eyed.

"Fine," Dean sighed, "Here, little bitc–"

John growled deep in his throat again.

"Little Princess," Dean swiftly substituted, placing the plastic bag back down between them.

Like lightning released from a jar, Sam grabbed a marshmallow and jabbed it onto the end of his stick.

"Pssst," John quietly called.

Sam hunched over, head down, oblivious.

"Pssst" John's voice grew louder.

Sam didn't move, staring into the dancing flames, marshmallow going from brown to black.

Dean shoulder bumped Sam roughly.

Sam sat straight and stiff tossing his stick –marshmallow and all into the fire and turning a full wattage bitch-face on Dean.

Dean smiled arrogantly, nodding his head toward John.

Sam darted a look toward their father, bitchy face ironing out smooth and puppyish in less than a second. "Yes, sir?" he softly asked.

"Neat trick there, Samantha," Dean snarked under his breath.

Sam blanched, but kept his composure.

"Come here, son." John set his coffee mug in the dirt at his feet.

Sam hesitated.

Dean gave Sam's shoe a hard shove with his boot.

Sam hissed in protest, but stood, coming dutifully around the fire to stand directly in front of his father.

John leaned forward and rested a firm hand on Sam's shoulders fixing him with a crack-the-whip look.

Sam shuffled nervously from foot to foot, but remained stiff and stoic, eyes never leaving his fathers.

"I'm very pleased with your progress, son," John finally said.

Sam's military stance wavered, shoulders dropped, eyes blinking the sudden wetness away.

"You've proven you can handle yourself." John glanced briefly past Sam over at Dean. "From now on you will be joining your brother and me on every hunt."

"Dad," Dean gasped.

A cool breeze picked up causing Sam to shiver.

"Will start slowly," John smiled at Dean, turning his attention back to Sam, giving the boy's shoulder a strong, reassuring squeeze. "Understand?"

"Yes, sir." Sam gave a weak, unsure smile, nodding.

John stood, towering over Sam. "I want you to have this." He pulled his knife from its sheath and handed it over to Sam.

Sam held the familiar, four-finger-holed knife in his hand. A knife his father was never without.

"I need you to understand, Sam. You. Dean. I'm tryin' to keep you safe, the only way I know how."

Sam had no words, continuing to stare at the knife.

"Go get some rest," John dismissed. "We pack up and hike out of here early tomorrow morning.

Without another word, Sam did as he was told.

John watched Sam make his way to the tent. Once the boy was zipped inside, he dug into his jacket pocket for his flask and stood, stepping up beside Dean.

Dean remained silent, gaping up at him.

John averted his gaze staring into the unknown darkness. "No choice." he raised his chin, drawing his shoulders back, chest puffed out. "You know we can't keep his nose buried in the books forever," he muttered quietly, eyes pooling with tears, but not allowing one to fall. "If only, "he barely whispered. Hand trembling, John glanced up at the twinkling stars taking a long swig off his flask. "Put the fire out and turn in," he ordered, disappearing into the shadows.

"Damn it," Dean snarled, nabbing a gallon-size jug of water and standing back as he poured it over the flames.

The fire hissed and sizzled and smoked in protest as it died down. Using his boot he spread some of the remaining large logs apart.

The surviving embers glowed red under the graying ash. Dean knew evils fire would never be quenched.

Just as he knew this day would come.

The day Sam would be forced to enter the business full-on. Dean shook his head, tormented by the thought as he headed back to the tent. He'd hopped for Sammy to be a boy just a little longer. Researching was bad enough, but hunting. Staring sadly at the zipper he barely could swallow the hot bile stinging the back of his throat. The thin canvas between them not hiding the quavering sobs of his brother.

Dean clenched his hands at his sides. This was the baby locked in his arms as he carried the infant from their burning home. The toddler he bathed and spoon fed and taught to use the john all by his lonesome. The restless, eager schoolboy who learned at an astounding rate, now a teen…his intelligence shooting out of him like a brilliant, radiant light. A light Dean could see burning in his brother's eyes every damn day. Dean unclenched a fist and ran his fingers through his hair in frustration. Sam, unlike him, deserved so much more than wielding weapons, sloshing through blood and swan diving into the world of the Supernatural. He deserved normal. He deserved a real life. Deserved to stay in one place, go to the same school for more than a semester. He deserved a home with a room of his own, home cooked food, a backyard to play ball in, a dog. He deserved more than what a big brother could give him, though Dean tried like hell to be there for Sam. Make sure all his needs were met. Provide love and encouragement, giving up his sleep and fun and own safety for Sam. He tried to remember special days like his birthday, Christmas, and every lost tooth. But motherhood was a full time career, and besides he could never hold a candle to –

"You can stop screwing around and making fun of me, Dean," Sam snuffled. "I know you're there."

Dean wiped away a tear of his own he hadn't realized fell, sucked in a deep breath and gruffly unzipped the tent crawling inside.

Sam sat cross-legged on top his sleeping bag, it was too dark to see his face, but he could see he held dad's gifted knife in his hand.

Dean flicked on the Coleman battery lantern and opened their mini cooler, digging through the melted ice until he found the last can of root beer. "What's the matter with you?" he asked, already knowing the answer as he plopped down on his own bag just inches from Sam.

Sam shrugged, keeping his head down and stifling a sob.

Dean cracked the can open with a bubbly hiss and took a long sip. "Here." He offered the can to Sam.

Sam shook his head in refusal; his long bangs brushing back and forth over his eyes hiding tears Dean knew were still falling.

Dean took another sip and sighed. "I know you're afraid, Sammy."

Sam shook his head no, peering up through his bangs at Dean.

"Dude, you were friggin' awesome." Dean paused to take another swig of root beer. "Power- Rangered that bitches ass." He smiled. "Of course you're still just a sissy pink ranger, be some time before you get to the awesome red ranger level I'm at." Dean waggled his brows, lamely trying to comfort his brother.

"This isn't a cartoon, Dean." Sam frowned. "We're not faster than speeding bullets or more powerful than locomotive or stupid...some stupid billionaire in a bat suit."

Dean drew back eyes wide. "Don't talk like that about Batman, dude." He eyed the knife Sam twirled in his hand. "Cool of dad to give you that."

"Yeah, real cool" Sam groaned and shivered as if he was sitting on a block of ice. "You like it so much. Here," he lightly tossed the knife onto Dean's sleeping bag. "Take it. Don't want it, Dean." Sam hunched in on himself. "Any of it."

"Sam, dad gave you this because he's proud of you." Dean set his root beer aside and picked the knife up holding it back out to Sam.

"Dad, hates me."

"No, he does not."

"Okay, I hate him." Sam shot back.

"Sam," Dean warned. "Attitude adjustment."

"Noogie away," Sam drawled uncaringly.

"I have a better idea," Dean said, reaching under his pillow and pulling out a deck of colored cards. "We play for the knife. Fair and square." He shuffled the deck.

"Uno? Really, Dean?"

"Like I said, dude, fair and square. You're a lousy poker player, Sam, and you know it." Dean dealt out the cards and laid the deck between them, turning over a blue seven off the top deck, he laid it down forming the discard pile. "Let's play."

Sam huffed, picking a card and immediately slapped it down on top the blue seven.

"Son of a bitch." Dean yelped, gaping at Sam. "You think you know a guy, until he hits you with a draw four right off the bat."

Sam smirked. "Sure you rather not play poker, Dean?"

"Shut up, Sam."

**/~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~/**

**End quote:**

**Sam Winchester: The Song Remains The Same (5-13)**

I used to be mad at him. I—I mean, I used to... I used to hate the guy. But now I—I... I get it. He was...just doing the best he could.

And he was trying to keep it together in—in—in this impossible situation. See... My mom, um... She was amazing, beautiful, and she was the love of his life. And she got killed. And...I think he would have gone crazy if he didn't do something. Truth is, um, my dad died before I got to tell him that I understand why he did what he did. And I forgive him for what it did to us. I do. And I just—I love him.


End file.
